


Male Order Bride

by teacuphuman



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Explosions, False Identity, Home, Home on the Range - Freeform, M/M, Mail Order Brides, Minor Character Death, Sassy Barsad (Dark Knight Rises), con artist John, cowboy Bane, holiday fic remix, only with men, shoot outs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-09 02:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 27,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12878376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: John is on the run with Bruce Wayne's stolen cash and Bane gets way more than he ordered.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's Holiday Remix Time!
> 
> This fic is based on the movie Mail Order Bride, starring the amazing Daphne Zuniga and some other people who are vaguely familiar. Updates will be daily (fingers crossed) and it should top out at between 25 and 30 chapters, so there will be plenty to get you though December!
> 
> A few notes on the dialogue in this fic. It's a western so go easy on how Bane and Barsad speak, okay? Going with their charming, contraction-free wordage didn't really work, so I had to loosen it up a bit, especially with Barsad. But, I think they're still pretty true to character and hopefully you'll all enjoy this little bit of escapism! I mean, the movie had at least three dick jokes already built in, so how bad can it be, right?

_ Dear Bane, _

_ As for all those questions of yours, yes, I can swim,  _

_ yes, I can bait a hook. Did I tell you I can toss a  _

_ blueberry in the air and catch it in my mouth?  _

_ And yes, I will marry you. _

 

**Chapter 1**

 

John is dressed in his finest, leaning against the back wall of the Taylor & Black Auction House, waiting for his moment. It’s a scam as old as time, but the schmucks he targets never seem to catch on and it’s depressing enough that he almost feels sorry for them. Not enough to stop, but you know, almost.

 

They bring out the vases and his mark accepts a glass of port from a valet, settling in for the viewing. He’s handsome in an unthreatening kind of way and John amuses himself thinking about what life with a man like that would entail. Dinners with investors and nights at the theatre, spending lazy mornings in bed, and filling his days with nothing more taxing than choosing new wallpaper for the library. 

 

No more scams or shakedowns. No hiding from the cops or playing pretty for the latest gang boss that’s taken a shine to him. No more whiskey-warmed breath across his face or unwanted hands on his thigh. No more following orders, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes averted. 

 

But John knows that will never happen. He can dream, but he’s been firmly rooted in his reality since he was twelve years old and he knows where he belongs. Knows what he’s good for.

 

The bidding starts and Mrs.Vaughn, of the Bastion Street Vaghns, thank you very much, raises her paddle. John smiles, slow and hungry as the auctioneer starts calling the bid. 

 

“Thirty dollars,” John offers, his voice strong, but disinterested.

 

The auctioneer perks up, glancing back at Mrs. Vaughn. “That’s thirty, do I hear thirty-five?” 

 

“Thirty-five,” she agrees.

 

“Fifty,” John says and the crowd starts to murmur.

 

“Sixty,” Mrs. Vaughn says.

 

“One hundred dollars,” John counters breezily, smiling at the few gasps he hears. From the corner of his eye he sees the mark watching him.

 

“Two hundred!” Mrs. Vaughn shouts, obviously ruffled.

 

John nods his head in her direction, bowing out and forcibly suppressing an eyeroll when she scoffs at him.

 

“Two hundred dollars, sold to Mrs. Vaughn!” the auctioneer crows.

 

A glass of wine appears at John’s elbow. “Drown your sorrows?” his mark asks.

 

_ Gotcha _ , John thinks. “No, but I’ll drink to the old witch who just spent two hundred dollars on fake Ming vases.”

 

The man gives the vases a startled look. ”They’re fake?” 

 

John hums his assent, taking a sip of wine. “That auctioneer sold the exact same pair in Boston last month.”

 

“And yet you drove up the price?” 

 

John leans in and drops his voice. “Because Mrs. Vaughn drove ten families onto the streets in the dead of winter for a tax break on an empty building.” He offers his hand to the man. “John Blake.” 

 

There’s definite interest in the man’s eyes as he takes John’s hand. “Aaron Carlisle,” his gaze travels down John’s body, but it doesn’t feel predatory, which is new. “Ten narrow. Carlisle shoes. Those are mine.” He nods at John’s boots.

 

John laughs like this is news to him. ”Mr. Carlisle! Half the men here are wearing your shoes.”

 

Carlisle blushes attractively. ”Are you here with your...husband?”

 

”Do you mean, do I have a husband?” John smirks.

 

”Do you?”

 

John pretends to think about it. ”Not that I recall. Nor a wife.” Carlisle looks relieved so John pushes on. “Mr. Carlisle, do you think that people should be honest at all times, no matter what?”

 

Carlisle straightens, looking John in the eye, and he’s so earnest it makes John want to walk away. ”Absolutely.”

 

John smiles, letting his dimples show. ”I’m a twelve. They’re big as boats.” 

 

John knows from the glint in his eye and the pink on his cheeks that he has Carlisle hooked. They watch a few more items sell, chatting quietly and flirting just enough to keep it interesting. Eventually, they make their way out of the auction house, Carlisle telling John about his last trip to San Francisco, and John is actually listening, hanging on every word as Carlisle describes the hills and the buildings. He’s so involved in the conversation that he almost grabs for the pickpocket's hand when he feels it dip into his jacket. But he has a job to do, so he lets the kid get about thirty feet from them before sounding the alarm.

 

Carlisle goes after the kid, just like John knew he would, because they’ve only just met, but Carlisle is a good man, and he believes in helping others. The kids drops the billfold as he climbs a fence and soon Carlisle is jogging back with it, looking triumphant.

 

John quickly opens it, pulling out a thick stack of bills and counting it breathlessly.

 

“Oh, my,” Carlisle says, eyes wide at the money.

 

”Oh,” John says, feigning embarrassment. “I’m in the whiskey business, it runs on cash, mostly. Sometimes a lot of it. Do you like Irish whiskey?” He smiles at Carlisle while shoving the bills back in the fold. 

 

“It’s never been my drink,” Carlisle admits.

 

John frowns, then hands Carlisle a few bills. “Then I insist you accept this reward.” 

 

“No, I couldn’t possibly!” Carlisle protests, but John just stuffs it in alongside his kerchief and pats it firmly. ”Business must be good.” 

 

“Oh, well,” John darts his eyes around, then leans closer to Carlisle. “This three thousand you just saved me will be six by morning.”

 

Carlisle’s mouth drops open. ”Double your money overnight?” 

 

John laughs like he’s flustered and said too much. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Carlisle. Goodbye.”

 

John starts to count in his head and Carlisle stops him with a hand on his elbow before he hits three.

 

“Perhaps I could learn to like Irish whiskey,” Carlisle says quietly, his grip tight on John’s arm. Desperate. “Business has been off, lately, and…”

 

“You want in?” John asks, like he’s surprised.

 

“Yes.”

 

John pressed his fingers to Carlisle’s hand. “Mr. Carlisle, Aaron. You should know that this venture isn’t exactly...legal.”

 

“I don’t care,” Carlisle says, resolute. 

 

“You should. My associate buys bootleg, cuts it, sells it, and I put up the front money,” John explains.

 

“How much to get in?”

 

“Three thousand.” 

 

Carlisle hesitates, biting his lip. “I can do two thousand.”

 

John smiles and links their arms, the thrill of success rushing through him. “Welcome to the whiskey business, Mr. Carlisle.”


	2. Chapter 2

John steels himself and opens the garden door, stepping into the parlor of a home far too lovely for the dark soul of he man playing the piano.

 

“I was beginning to worry,” Wayne says, his fingers gliding over the ivory keys.

 

“About me, or the money?” John asks, keeping the piano between them.

 

Wayne laughs. “I never worry about money.”

 

John grimaces and empties a small bag, laying stacks of cash on the piano. “Fifteen hundred.”

 

“The deal was two thousand,” Wayne remarks.

 

“I let him in for sixteen, minus a hundred to pay my people,” John knows his voice doesn’t waver at the lie, but he can’t help but wonder if Wayne senses his deception. “If you’re not happy, I can give it back. Less expenses, of course.” 

 

Wayne continues to play, ignoring John and making him uneasy and apish until he can’t take it anymore and starts to walk away.

 

“You think I worry about a few thousand dollars? You think that’s why I did this?” Wayne asks, turning toward John.

 

John grits his teeth. “As I recall,  _ you  _ didn’t do anything.”

 

Wayne gets to his feet and wanders over to the sideboard, clipping the end of a cigar. “Calisle’s loan is due, and he can no longer repay it.” 

 

John goes still. “What are you talking about? He’s rich.”

 

Wayne laughs around the stogie, pausing before he lights it. “Hardly. You just cleaned him out.”

 

“What?” John grips the back of a chair, his stomach sinking.

 

“Thanks to you, I can now foreclose on his beloved shoe business. I’ve got a buyer lined up, ready to pay me three times what it’s worth.” Wayne’s watching him closely, puffing on his cigar and waiting.

 

Despite knowing it’s exactly what Wayne wants, John lets his anger show. “This was supposed to be a money thing, you weren’t supposed to ruin him.”

 

Wayne smirks. “Don’t tell me you’re developing a conscience.”

 

It’s the way Wayne says it, like he set this up specifically to make John feel like this. To test him. Like he ruined a good man just because he could. The fury inside him breaks and John slumps against the chair, his hands balling into fists. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m through making you money, I’m through stealing for you.”

 

“Yeah? You going back into business for yourself?” Wayne is right in front of him now, ducking his head to catch John’s eye, and John always forgets how big he is until moments like this. The times Wayne reminds him. “Because as I recall, that didn’t work out too well.”

 

John grits his teeth and raises his chin. “I may have been a piss-poor orphan, but at least no one owned me!”

 

“That’s because no one wanted you!” Wayne laughs. “The day I caught you with your hand in my pocket was the luckiest day of your miserable life. Anyone else would have had you sent to the workhouse.”

 

“I wish you had!” John spits.

 

“I still can! Nothing’s changed, John, all you are is  _ older _ .” Wayne’s hand tangles in his hair, jerking John’s head back until Wayne is staring down at him, a dark pantomime of a lover’s embrace. “Don’t forget what happened the last time you tried to leave.”

 

The garden door opens again, but Wayne doesn’t let go, even when his right hand, Victor, clears his throat.

 

”Mr. Wayne? Boss. I got a wire from my railroad man, Falcone’s on the eight o’clock train, riding flush after a wildcat mining scam; suckered half a town in Texas.”

 

Wayne’s demeanor changes in an instant and he lets John go, pushing away and pulling on his cigar. “Well, alright, set something up.”

 

John catches himself on the chair, panting.

 

“I’ll have Jimmy handle it,” Victor offers.

 

“That might be quite a trick considering he’s at the bottom of the harbour,” Wayne pouts.

 

John’s head snaps up. “Jimmy’s dead? What happened?”

 

Wayne turns back to John and sighs loudly. “He was skimming from me.”

 

John goes cold. He’s known Jimmy since he was fifteen years old. They had run a hundred cons together over the years and he was one of the very few people John considered a friend. He tries to slip past, but Wayne wraps an arm around his waist, pulling John back against him.

 

“Where’re you going?” Wayne runs his nose over John’s ear and into his hair. “Dinner tonight. Wear the red waistcoat I bought you.”

 

Wayne pushes him away roughly, leading Victor out of the parlour and leaving John to press his face into a cushion and scream out his rage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Selina is introduced in this chapter, and you're all going to have to suspend your disbelief a little bit from here on in because it's a fic, and I'm not a scholar on America in the 1880s, and Gotham is a fake place, and blah, blah, blah. Just go with it and enjoy the crakiness that is this fic. Oh yeah, I literally just forgot what I was going to type. Huh. I'm sure it wasn't that important...
> 
> I'd also like to thank [@coffeewithconsequences](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences) for having a look at this to make sure it made sense and wasn't just me rambling on and on and on and on.

John goes where he always does when he’s unnerved. He goes to church.  His heart rate slows as he dips his fingers into the font of holy water, crossing himself and feeling more at home here than anywhere else he’s been.

 

He heads straight past Father Foley, passed out drunk and snoring in the back pew, and enters the confessional. 

 

“Forgive me, Sister.”

 

“Confess your sins,” the nun on the other side of the partition says gently, calming the storm inside him even more.

 

“Lied, cheated, gambled, cursed, drank whiskey,” John lists off, taking the money he’d hid from Wayne out of his thigh harness.

 

“And when was your last confession?”

 

“Yesterday.” John slides the money into the hidden compartment in the partition and feels a hundred pounds lighter.

 

“Hmm, anything else?”

 

“Yes, I robbed a man of his life savings. A decent man. Can you forgive me for that, because I’m not sure I can.”

 

“John,” she says, weary.

 

“Look at us, Selina. What have we become?”

 

“What we’ve always been,” she responds, her voice sharp. “Survivors.”

 

“Except you use your money for the church, and I use the church to hide my money.” John is tired, so very tired of everything, and it’s a relief that he couldn’t hide it from Selina even if he wanted to. She’s as close to family as he’s ever had, and they’re the only ones who know they’re not actually siblings.

 

“But your heart is in the right place,” Selina offers.

 

John scoffs. “You have to say that.”

 

“Why, because you’re my brother?” she asks, wryly.

 

“It’s been a long time since we were kids, Selina,” John leans his head against the partition, laying his hand against the swirls in the wood. Selina’s hand immediately joins his, matching him finger for finger from the other side. “You’re the only thing I have that’s good in my life.”

 

“Well, I can’t argue with that, but what’s wrong?”

 

“I can’t take him anymore. I’m getting out,” as John says the words, he realizes they’re true this time. “I’ve been thinking San Francisco.”

 

Selina storms out of the confessional and throws open the curtain on his side. “There is no out, you know what happened last time you tried.”

 

John smiles sadly and nods, getting to his feet.

 

“John. John!” she pleads. “Please stop and think about this.”

 

“Here, your take for the parish. We both know you’re the only reason this place hasn’t burned to the ground yet,” he hands her a folded stack of bills and kisses her cheek before he leaves, his name echoing through the empty church as her voice grows frantic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags will change as we go forth and I add things! Nothing hugely upsetting happens in this fic, but I want to make sure you know what you're in for.

John heads for the West End and buys lilies from a stall. They’re bright orange because he can’t bare to buy white when there’s still hope in his heart. White is for weddings and funerals, and he can’t think about either of those right now.

 

He ducks under the quarantine sign and makes his way up the stairs, trying to block out the sounds of coughing and human misery. This place isn’t ideal, but it’s the best he can do when the rest of the city considers the occupants the living dead. At least he can afford a private room and medicine that keeps away the pain.

 

Jonathan, a brother to him like Selina is his sister, looks frail and wispy in the narrow bed. He’s slimmer than he was last week, his skin growing so tight over his bones that John can see them shake when he coughs.

 

“How are you? Are you eating?” John asks, bending to kiss Jonathan’s forehead.

 

Jonathan’s voice is a dry rasp and his hand is paper-thin when it clamps onto John’s. “I’ve been waiting for your visit.”

 

John has nothing to say to that. Selina is terrified of consumption and refuses to do anything but write. John knows she begs God’s forgiveness daily for letting her fears keep her away, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to blame her, despite his loneliness.

 

John fills a clay jar for the flowers and sets them next to the bed where Jonathan can see them. The room is dim and moist, but John forces himself not to look uncomfortable.

 

“You need to eat more, keep your strength.”

 

“I still have enough strength to whip you good, just try me,” Jonathan says, laughing weakly.

 

“Well, you’re not too sick to pester me, that’s a relief.”

 

“If ever I am not, surely I’ll already be dead.”

 

“Don’t joke about that,” John scolds.

 

Jonathan waves him off. “What’s Wayne done this time?”

 

“Nothing. The usual. I just,” John blows out a breath. He shouldn’t be complaining to Jonathan like this. Not when they both know Jonathan’s days are numbered. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“John,” Jonathan says, and for a moment his voice is as crisp and sharp as it used to be. “You can’t let Wayne do this to you. He’ll turn you into a husk of yourself. He’ll hold you under until you drown in his deceit, and you’re too good to end up like he is.”

 

“Shh, don’t worry, I will handle Wayne.” At Jonathan’s skeptical look he adds: “Don’t I always?”

 

Jonathan closes his eyes, exhausted from his short speech, and John lets him drift into sleep while he bites at his thumbnail and tries to figure out a way to flee from Wayne without sending the world crashing onto all their heads.

 

“Can you keep a secret?” Jonathan asks an hour later, startling John from his reverie.

 

John smiles and leans closer. “Of course.”

 

“I’m getting married,” Jonathan whispers, his smile cracking his dry lips. His tongue swipes out to clear the droplet of blood, momentarily staining his teeth a garish red. “Look, we’ve been writing for months.” He pulls a stack of envelopes from beneath the blanket and his movements are so clumsy John has to help. 

 

“His name is Bane,” Jonathan confides, joy evident in his fevered gaze. His cheeks are pink and every word is pushed out between one gasp and the next. “We met before I knew I was sick.”

 

“You met him? He’s here?” John asks, pulling a letter out.

 

Jonathan shakes his head slowly. “I answered an ad for a mail order marriage.”

 

“You what?” John almost laughs. 

 

“Read them to me,” Jonathan demands, his frail hands dancing over the paper. “He’s lovely, John. He wants to marry me.”

 

John wants to cry, but Jonathan looks happier than John’s ever seen him, so he starts reading.

 

“Dear Jonathan,” he starts. “I will not lie to you. Life out here is not easy, but as I sit on my porch, watching the sunset light a blaze across the open sky, I find myself wishing to share this moment with you. We have been corresponding only a short time, but already I feel as though I know you. I have certainly opened myself to you in a way I am not known for. I am not a man easily frightened, but you frighten me, Jonathan. Or rather, the possibility of you. Of the words you write and the things you promise. I can only hope that I will live up to the light I have glimpsed in your letters.”

 

The letters go on like that, never very long, but economical in their delivery and laced with a sort of poetry that leaves an unfamiliar burning in John’s chest. He’s jealous, he realizes. Not because Jonathan has this Bane person, but because John has no one. He wants a partner in more than just crime, and he thinks he finally has the desperation to fight for it. 

 

Jonathan is asleep again after the second letter, but John reads them all, back to front, letting every word sink into his mind. If this man, this coarse stranger, a damaged man by his own admission, found the courage to reach out and ask the universe for what he so desired, why can’t John? If John had seen Bane’s ad first, would he have been tempted to respond? He sits and listens to Jonathan’s wheezing, thinking about a marriage that will never be, and aching for the hope and possibility of the man in the letters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that minor character death tag? This is where that comes in. There is also a bit of violence and groping. I swear it gets better. If you want specifics, check the end notes before reading.

The switch on Falcone takes place in Wayne’s private gambling den. They lure Falcone there with a chance meeting in a pub and set him up to win big, one of John’s hired girls on either arm the whole night to keep him glued to the floor. Falcone is a two-bit con man with just enough pedigree to get him into rooms Wayne has to buy a presence in, so it’s not a surprise that Wayne wants to take him for everything he has. It’s a shame class doesn’t mean intelligence because John has no doubt they’ll find Falcone in a gutter come morning, but he can’t afford to worry about things like that anymore. Not with his freedom on the line. 

 

Victor cashes him out for ten grand at the booth and Falcone takes his ‘entertainment’ upstairs, his winnings making the ladies laugh louder and cling tighter. Victor and Wayne watch him like a hawk while he gambles, but neither have eyes on him when John runs into Falcone at the top of the stairs, flashing his dimples in apology and blushing attractively at Falcone’s groping as he shuffles past. Less than thirty seconds later, John is securing a thick stack of bills in the garter around his upper thigh and slipping a knife into his boot.

 

He goes to Selina first, taking his stash from the secret compartment in the confessional. ”I have no time to explain, he’s coming for me.”

 

”What have you done?” she hisses.

 

He shoves the cash from the confessional and what he took from Falcone into her hands. “Here, take this, for the parish.”

 

Selina’s eyes go wide. “This is all you have, I can’t take this.”

 

John clings to her. “Then come with me.” 

 

Before she can answer, the doors of the narthex bang open and she’s shoving John towards the altar. He crouches behind a statue as Wayne comes flying up the aisle, heading directly for Selina.

 

“Mr. Wayne,” Selina says calmly. There’s no sign of the money John gave her, but her wimple is crooked.

 

“Where is he?” Wayne demands.

 

“Who?”

 

Wayne backhands Selina and she slumps into a pew, shock and anger plain on her face. Wayne isn’t above using Selina’s knowledge of the parishioners for his benefit, but he’s usually reluctant to be in her presence and has never laid a hand on her before. Something about her habit bothers him, John knows, and until now it’s been enough to keep Selina safe. 

 

Wayne advances on her and John is forced into action. “Get your hands off her!”

 

John moves to put himself between Wayne and Selina, but Wayne grabs him, pressing them back to front and squeezing the air out of John’s lungs

.

“Where’s Falcone’s money?” Wayne growls, using his free hand to grope along John’s torso.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” John gasps, squirming away as the hands roam lower.

 

“Oh, I think you do. I think you cleaned him out before he hit the street.” Wayne’s fingers are cold and bony and John makes an undignified squeak when they claw their way under his shirt. “Tell me where it is, don’t make me hurt you.”

 

“You can’t, not anymore,” John spits.

 

“Oh, no?” Wayne asks.

 

John goes still when he feels Wayne’s smile against his cheek, and before John can shout a warning, Wayne’s gun is out and a shot echoes through the church. Selina cries out and falls to the floor.

 

“You bastard!” John rages, shoving Wayne aside and rushing to Selina’s crumpled form. 

 

She whimpers when John touches her, but the relief he feels at the sound of her pain nearly has him laid out beside her on the floor. Selina’s blood slicked hand squeezes his as Wayne’s footsteps stop behind him. They make eye contact and John nods minutely. He slides the knife out of his boot and spins, catching Wayne in the back of the thigh and opening up a wound big enough to send Wayne crashing backwards, howling in pain.

 

“It’s just my arm, go!” Selina tells him, pushing John away.

 

“I can’t leave you!” John snaps, trying to get her up. 

 

There’s commotion from the back pew and Father Foley stumbles to his feet, roused from his drunken stupor by the gunshot.

 

“Just go!” Selina yells as Wayne is distracted by the priest. He’s sprawled on the stone floor, but the gun is cocked and pointed in John’s direction.

 

The first shot whizzes past John’s ear, and Selia kicks at him, screaming for him to run. Another bullet splinters the wood of the door a moment after John clears it, and then he’s out in the cold of the night, running faster than he’s ever run before, Wayne’s threats and Father Foley’s curses fading on the wind.

 

John heads straight for the West End, keeping an eye out for a tail. He’ll have to send for Selina later, but there’s a chance he can get Jonathan out of here tonight. Wayne is on a warpath and no one will be safe from his revenge. 

 

John crashes into Jonathan’s room and any hope he had for his friend shrivels up and dies. Jonathan’s skin is waxen and yellowed, his pale blue eyes bulging in his pretty head. The rattle in his chest grates with every breath he takes, but he’s laying calmly, like he doesn’t even notice John is there.

 

“I have to go,” John tells him, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

 

“I was going to be married,” Jonathan says, gasping. “Bane was going to be my second chance.”

 

“Save your breath, Jonathan. Please, don’t tax yourself.” John wants to hold his hand, to kiss his brow, to wrap his arms around his brother and take him away from all of this, but Jonathan looks like he’ll crumble to dust if John so much as moves too quickly. He thought he knew fear before tonight, but he knew nothing. This, here, watching Selina get shot, and Jonathan fighting for his last breath, this is what fear really looks like for John Blake.

 

“You remember when we were kids and no one could tell us apart?” Jonathan asks, his white lips cracking with the smile that breaks across his face. “We used to do a bait and switch. We were so good at it.”

 

“We were the best,” John says, finally moving to smooth the limp hair off Jonathan’s brow. He can’t let his fear show when he knows he’s the one who will be left standing at the end of the night. He owes Jonathan comfort and love, and he will not fail in this.

 

“As long as they didn’t look too close, because your eyes are brown and mine are, mine are,” Jonathan coughs, and it rattles his entire frame so hard John has to stifle a whine.

 

“Yours are blue,” John tells him, closing his eyes against the blood at the corner of Jonathan’s mouth. “As blue as the sea.”

 

“I lied to him. I said I was a country boy, not...this. I couldn’t.”

 

“It’s okay, he’ll understand.”

 

“Take these,” Jonathan says, shoving Bane’s letters at John. He’s weak, but John can’t stop him. 

 

“No, I can’t.”

 

“Go to him, John. Be my second chance. Tell him I’m sorry,” Jonathan starts wheezing, no longer able to form words, and before long he’s slipped into unconsciousness. John clutches the letters and Jonathan’s hand, crying over him until he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wayne backhands Selina, Wayne gropes John while trying to find money, Wayne shoots at Selina and catches her in the arm (she lives), John stabs Wayne in the leg, and Jonathan dies. Did I mention there's a happy ending?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter, but, but, but...Bane and Barsad!!!!!

Bane pulls the razor across the pitted surface of his skin, catching the few stubborn stray hairs that persist in pushing through the scars that mar his face. He rinses the blade and starts on his head, paying close attention to the curve of his skull and around his ears.

 

”Don’t waste time on pageantry, he may not show,” Barsad tells him, washing up the last of the breakfast things.

 

“He will,” Bane insists for the sixth time.

 

“He might. And he might just turn around and run off, like the last one.” Barsad’s tone is matter of fact, and Bane knows his friend is worried for him, but it irks him that they’ve had this conversation more than once.

 

“Do you not have more pressing matters to attend to?”

 

“Nope.” Barsad gives him a lazy grin.

 

Bane growls with displeasure. “Jonathan is not like the other ones. He grew up on a farm, he knows this life.”

 

“He been with a man before?”

 

“I do not know.” Bane wipes his face and head, taking his time until he’s sure the flush on his skin has faded.

 

Barsad snorts. “You don’t know? What were you writing about in all those letters?”

 

“Not that,” Bane tells him curtly.

 

“A boy grows up on a farm, he gets to have some mighty _ big _ expectations, what with being around all those stallions and bulls all day.” 

 

“I have a razor in my hand,” Bane threatens and Barsad smirks.

 

“No one kills the cook. You slit my throat, you starve.” Barsad tears a page out of one of Bane’s books and rolls some tobacco, ignoring the glare being sent his way.

 

“I have water. Man can live for forty days on water.” Bane snatches the book and puts it on a high shelf, one he knows Barsad cannot reach without a chair.

 

“You can’t live on love for forty days.”

 

“You can live a lifetime on love.”

 

“What fool told you that?” Barsad asks, lighting his cigarette.

 

“You did,” Bane says quietly. “Or have you forgotten?”

 

“Must have been in another lifetime, brother.” Barsad turns away, letting the screen slam on his way out the door.

 

“Indeed.”

 

Bane drapes a clean kerchief across his face, tying the ends behind his head. When he steps outside Barsad is nowhere to be seen, but the horses are hooked to the wagon and everything is ready to go. Bane settles on the unforgiving seat, snaps the reins, and heads once more into the unknown.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bane, John. John, Bane.

_ Dear Jonathan, _

_ I finished the bed today. It occurred to me that I do not know how tall you are, but if you are under seven feet, it will suffice. I cannot express how grateful I am that you accepted my proposal, and I believe you will enjoy living here. I must admit that I am anxious, and that is not a state in which I often find myself. But I have hope that the feeling will disappear once I have been graced with your gentle hand and comely face. _

 

John folds away the letter. It’s the last one Jonathan received and the one in which John found the ticket for the stage coach. He’d had no idea where Santa Prisca was until he asked the coach driver, and even now, he’s not sure he could find it on a map. Surely this middle of nowhere town will be far enough from Gotham to hide. To catch his breath and regroup so he can plan out his next move, because no matter what Jonathan promised Bane, John is not equipped to be someone’s husband.

 

The carriage stops and John hurries to put away the letters. He’s spent the past four days reading and rereading them, memorizing the glimpses of Bane between the lines, and trying to convince himself that he can pull this off. John climbs out of the coach and looks around, taking note of the weather-worn buildings and the dust that clings to everything. He takes his suitcase from the station master and looks around for Bane, freezing when he sees a giant of a man standing in the shadow of a building. 

 

His first thought when the man steps forward is if he’ll fit in the bed Bane described. He’s dressed like a rancher in worn leather britches and a linen shirt under his vest. There’s a bandana over the lower half of his face, and for one giddy moment, John  wonders if the man is there to rob him. But he’s holding a gathering of lilies and his eyes are soft and hopeful when he looks at John, holding out a large, rough hand.

 

“Jonathan.”

 

It’s not a question, and his voice is higher than John expected, his words lilted with an accent John can’t place. Behind him, the coach jerks forward, already loaded and moving on, leaving John and Bane alone, standing in the middle of the street.

 

John puts on his demure mask and offers his hand. “Please, call me John.”

 

Bane raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue, just hands John the lilies. “Your favourite.”

 

John’s smile slips and his heart aches so hard for Jonathan that he wants to blurt out the truth. But he’s a coward and takes the flowers. “Thank you, they’re lovely.”

 

Bane looks pleased and John relaxes for a moment.

 

“The wagon is this way,” Bane tells him, picking up John’s suitcase and walking away, and just like that, John is back to feeling wound up and on edge.

 

He clutches his satchel close and follows, frowning at the wagon Bane stops beside. It’s surely higher than usual, he thinks, the lowest part drawing even with his shoulder. The wheels are massive and there’s no step to help him climb up. He places a foot on one of the spokes and grips the side, but he still has the lilies in his hand and his soft-soled shoes offer no traction, and he tumbles off. Strong hands wrap around his waist, righting him and keeping him from landing on his ass in the dirt.

 

“Allow me,” Bane says, broad, and close, and covered in sun warmed skin, lifting John effortlessly and placing him gently on the seat.

 

John’s face is aflame and he bites his lip against the flush of arousal that strikes through him at Bane’s show of strength.

 

“Thank you,” he croaks, suddenly worried that this plan of his might not be as straightforward as he first assumed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.

 

John turns in his seat, staring back, unimpressed at the town they just passed through. “So that’s it? That’s Santa Prisca?” 

 

Bane inclines his head, snapping the reins over the rumps of the Percherons pulling the wagon. “Yes. My land is two hours South, we’ll be there before night fall.”

 

“Great,” John mutters, ready to be done with all the sitting he’s endured.

 

They ride in silence for almost an hour, and John takes the time to study Bane. He’s sturdy, that’s for sure, and easily a head and a half taller than John, but there’s a quiet intensity about him that puts John at ease. Normally, he’s not trusting of strangers, and why would he be when he makes his living as he does? But he’s generally a good judge of character and he marks Bane as someone who doesn’t bother with falsities. If he means to be cruel to John, he’s hiding it well and without purpose, because John doubts there’s much he could do to physically stop him. 

 

When Bane shifts to correct the horses, his shirt pulls at the collar and John catches a glimpse of a dense cording of scar tissue running down his spine. Bane’s hat and shirt cover most of it, so John can’t tell how far it goes, but it doesn’t strike him as something a weaker man would survive, and it makes him wonder just what kind of life Bane lead before he settled into this one. Maybe John isn’t the only on leaping at second chances.

 

John tries not to squirm and wince at every bump in the road, but he’s not used to sitting for such long periods, and his entire body is protesting. Bane seems perfectly comfortable with the silence and the punishing landscape, but he must be paying attention to John’s discomfort because he stops the wagon beside a wide stream to let the horses drink, helping John stumble out so he can stretch his legs.

 

“There really isn’t much around here, is there?” John asks. The scenery is pretty, but there isn’t much to it besides trees and fields.

 

“From where I stand, there is everything I need.” Bane says, his keen eyes on John. He’s still wearing the bandana over his mouth and nose, but his voice is clear and strong, every word settling over John like a comfort he doesn’t deserve.

 

John ducks his head, unsure of how to respond. Bane takes a step toward him, but halts when riders on horseback come out of the brush on the other side of the stream. Bane tenses, stepping in front of John as though to shield him and John has to watch through the space between Bane’s arm and torso.

 

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Bane asks, his voice hard and so unlike how he speaks to John.

 

One of the riders, a thickset man with a missing finger on his left hand adjusts his hat and smirks at Bane. ”Afraid you can’t cross here, League land.”

 

Bane widens his stance. “It was public land when I rode into town.”

 

”You’re going to have to use Old Mountain Pass from now on,” the man says, gesturing the way John and Bane came from.

 

“That will add ten unnecessary miles to my journey.”

 

The man spits and pulls out his gun, resting it on the pommel of his saddle.. “Best you get going, then.”

 

John stares at Bane, but Bane doesn’t flinch and John knows better than to speak up when

Bane takes his arm and helps him back into the wagon like he isn’t turning his back to five armed men. Bane climbs into the wagon and snaps the reins, driving clear across the stream. The men look murderous as they pass, but they don’t make a move.

 

They’re past the treeline, on a rickety path when John hears a voice call out after them. ”That’s the only free pass you’re gonna get, Bane!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about sex, baby  
> Let's talk about you and me  
> Let's talk about all the good things  
> And the bad things that may be  
> Let's talk about sex  
> Let's talk about sex
> 
> No, really, all they do is talk about it. Sorry.

By the time they reach the ranch, John’s ass is numb and his legs are all pins and needles. The sign above the gate declares it to be The Blue Poppy Ranch, and there’s a beautiful, ornate flower carved into each end of the wooden arch.

 

“Are there many blue poppies that grow around here?” John asks.

 

Bane makes an indecipherable noise. “None that I have seen.”

 

Bane pulls to a stop outside the house, a squat, plain structure made from bits of mismatched lengths of wood, clearly an afterthought as the barn is nearly pristine craftsmanship in comparison.

 

“Well, it’s just as you described it,” John says drily.

 

“Why would it be anything else?” Bane asks, climbing out of the wagon.

 

John blows out his breath. “Right. Nothing a coat of paint can’t improve, I suppose.”

 

A man comes out of the barn, compact, but well formed, his pale eyes keen and curious.

 

“You must be Barsad,” John says, still sitting in the wagon. He’s certain to fall on his face if he tries to get out on his own. “Pleased to meet you.”

 

“Do not trust anything Barsad tells you,” Bane tells him gruffly. “He lives for chaos and lies for entertainment. He is also a terrible cook.” 

 

“Uh,” John says, eyes sliding from Bane back to a smirking Barsad.

 

“I haven’t killed you yet,” Barsad says, almost sweetly, his accent thicker than Bane’s, but completely different. 

 

John takes in the easy comfort of the two men, the teasing, and the clear camaraderie, and wonders about the relationship between them, about where they found each other. There’s something in the way Barsad constantly tracks Bane’s movements that unsettles him, but it doesn’t stop him from accepting Barsad’s help when it’s offered. He stumbles out of the wagon and brushes off his suit.

 

“If you need anything, that’s where I sleep,” Barsad tells him, pointing to the small window above the barn. “I prefer the company of horses to that of my brother.” 

 

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were related,” John says innocently, cataloguing the dangerous grace and swiftness of Barsad’s movements.

 

“In circumstance only,” Bane says, his eyes on Barsad. “A brotherhood forged in a common goal.”

 

“Which is?” John prompts.

 

Barsad smiles, easy, but cryptic. “Oh, don’t you worry about that, now. We don’t want to scare you off on the first day.”

 

Bane takes John’s things inside without a word and Barsad drifts back to the barn. John takes a long look around and reminds himself that he chose this fate. He follows Bane into the house, walking around what is really just one large room, sectioned by curtains of rough canvas that hang from the beams. There is a small kitchen with a wood stove, a table and two chairs made from dark wood, and an old cupboard, stacked with dishes and pans.

 

He wanders past the canvas, coming face to face with the bed Bane described in his letters. Bane stands beside him silently.

 

“Nice bed,” John tells him. “Big.”

 

“It will suffice,” Bane says, resting his hand lightly along the curve of John’s spine.

 

“I’m not over seven feet,” John remarks, his voice higher than usual.

 

“No, you are quite small.”

 

John frowns. “Comparatively, you mean.”

 

“Of course.” Bane says with humour and John turns to glare at him. “There is a gathering next week, with the neighbors. To celebrate your arrival and our union.”

 

“What, like an engagement party?” John asks. “You have those here?”

 

Bane raises an eyebrow. “We are not all as barbaric as we seem, John, I assure you.”

 

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean...look, I don’t really think I’m up for-”

 

“There are not many marriages performed here,” Bane interrupts his backpedalling. “Partners are hard to come by.”

 

John snorts. “I bet.”

 

“One gets used to it.”

 

John’s gaze travels from the bed to Bane’s massive hands, his skin prickling at the possibilities. “Oh yeah, how used to it are you?”

 

“Glaringly,” Bane says slowly. “Six years.”

 

John’s eyes widen. “Six years?”

 

Bane looks down at him, and the bandana covers his mouth, but somehow John knows Bane is smirking. “Fear not, my memory is excellent.”

 

John licks his lips at the words, even though he’s certain they were made in jest, because Bane is large, and close, and it’s been longer for John than he’d care to admit. Bane’s eyes track the movement of John’s tongue, then travel upwards, gazing at John with interest and heat.

 

“I will sleep in the barn with Barsad,” Bane tells him, taking a step back.

 

John’s first instinct is to reach out and pull Bane to him, but he has to think beyond today. He needs to stay here until he’s sure Wayne isn’t after him, and sex will only complicate things more than they need to be. At the thought of sex, John ponders again about the nature of Bane and Barsad’s relationship. He can’t sleep with Bane, but he’ll be damned if he sends him running to the bed of another man. What need will Bane have for John then?

 

“I can’t take your bed,” he says, looking up at Bane through his lashes.

 

“It is your bed, John,” Bane tells him, going to the door. “When you wish to share it is for you to decide.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared to be wowed by my research on cattle.

John wakes from a deep sleep, grumpy and cold, when the rooster starts crowing. His breath comes out in foggy puffs in front of his face and he doesn’t remember the last time he was awake before noon. He slept in his dressing gown to fight off the cold, and he glares at the thinness of his suits where they hang from nails in the wall. Gotham was much warmer than here, and he hasn’t had to get up and stoke a fire since he was a kid living in the streets, curling around a pile of broken wood in the shelter of an alley.

 

He can’t hear anyone outside, so he puts on the warmest suit he has and starts to poke around. He’s still shivering because though his suit is cut close to his body, it’s still a lightweight wool, and clearly not ideal for winter in Santa Prisca. The books piled on the shelf at the end of the bed are all well-loved and intimidating, most in languages John doesn’t recognize, but when he opens some of them, he finds small blue flowers pressed between that pages. He puts the books back carefully and wonders about blue poppies.

 

The small tin on the desk turns out to be Bane’s shaving things and the pantry in the kitchen is stocked with supplies. In an old toolbox in the cupboard he finds a simple, silver band in a velvet lined box, and the letters Bane received from Jonathan. He’s just pulled the top one out to read when he hears Bane’s heavy steps on the porch. He shoves the letters back in the toolbox and the toolbox back into the cupboard.

 

“You are awake,” Bane says and his eyes drop to John’s clothes. “That is...a suit.”

 

“Ah, yeah. I didn’t have much else to bring.”

 

Bane tilts his head to the side, his eyes still roaming over John’s body. “How will you ride a horse in that?”

 

John stills. “We’re going riding?”

 

“You love horses,” Bane states, like it’s something John should know.

 

John cracks his knuckles, smiling shyly. “I may have exaggerated a little in my letters.”

 

Bane raises an eyebrow and John sighs and pushes past him to the door.

 

The horses are already outside, and if he ever wondered how big a horse would be needed to carry a man of Bane’s size, he need wonder no more because the thing is massive. It reminds John of a painting he saw once of Death riding his pale horse toward the end of the world. John steps up to the smaller beast and contemplates how to get his foot in the stirrup without ripping the seam of his pants, blatantly ignoring Bane standing behind him.

 

“You can either take it off, or let me help you.”

 

John smirks. “You choose.”

 

Bane steps closer, his body one long, warm line along John’s. John’s mouth drops open a little when Bane’s hands slide under the hem of his jacket, but the next thing he knows, he’s in the air and scrambling onto the horse’s back with a yelp.

 

Bane’s hand lingers on John’s thigh once he’s seated and Bane stares intently as he kneads the muscle there.

 

“You sure it’s only been six years?” John teases.

 

“Perhaps I lost count,” Bane admits with one last squeeze.

 

Bane climbs onto his horse and John has no idea how a man of his size moves to easily, but it’s mesmerizing to watch. Bane leans forward to drop a hat on John’s head, shielding his eyes from the weak sunshine. It’s well worn, but clean and comfy, and John mumbles his thanks while trying not to fall sideways off the horse. 

 

“Come along.” Bane makes a soft noise in is throat and his horse starts walking.

“Right,” John says, gently leading his horse forward.

 

“This way, John.” Bane calls when John’s horse starts off in the opposite direction.

 

It takes a good hour for him to get the hang of riding again, muscle memory coming back to him, achingly slow. As they reach the valley, Bane speeds up effortlessly and John’s horse follows, trotting much faster than John is comfortable with.

 

“Whoa! Okay, stop, just stop,” John calls out, a little frantic.

 

Bane reaches out to pull on John’s reins and the horse slows. “You  _ were _ exaggerating.”

 

“Well, we only had the one horse,” John exclaims, his heart racing. He continues when Bane looks at him with interest. “It was a dairy farm.”

 

“You did not tell me that in your letters.”

 

John shrugs, nudging his horse gently as Bane moves on. “Well, compared to a cattle ranch it was hardly worth mentioning.”

 

“I would trade a dozen cattle for a holstein. We have not had milk or butter for a year.”

 

“Well, what about those?” John asks, pointing to some vague brown shapes in the distance.

 

A crease forms between Bane’s eyes. “Those are longhorns. Can you not see them?”

 

John flushes, but holds his head high. “My glasses broke on my journey.”

 

“You did not mention your poor eyesight,” Bane huffs. “There appears to be quite a bit you left out of your letters.”

 

John clenches his jaw, embarrassed and angry. “Because you’re such a fountain of personal information,” he snipes. “Are glasses a deal breaker? You like your husbands to have perfect vision?”

 

“I have need for only one husband,” Bane tells him cooly. “But it would be beneficial if he is able to tell the livestock apart.”

 

“It’s only things far away that I have trouble with. Up close, I’m fine,” John says, feeling defensive.

 

Bane turns to him, his tone sardonic. “As long as there is no chance you will mistake another for your husband.”

 

John relaxes a little and smirks. “I wouldn’t worry about that, you’re pretty unmistakable.”

 

Bane’s hand goes to his bandana, and John silently curses himself. They’re not starting off on the right foot and if he wants Bane to keep him, he’d better start playing nice.

 

“I mean, those shoulders, phew! Never seen ones like them before. How do you find shirts that fit?” The tips of Bane’s ears go a little pink and John mentally pats himself on the back. 

 

They ride until they come upon the small herd of cattle and John can now make out the longhorns for what they are. Bane whistles through his teeth, moving the cattle further towards the dip in the valley, and John cuts around the other side, doing his best to keep the cattle together between them.

 

“So this is all yours?” he calls out over the noise of the herd.

 

Bane cuts to the side to halt a wandering beast, then falls back in line. “I received 320 acres as a homesteader. Once we are married, the government will give us another 320.”

 

John raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Double down.”

 

“Fifty head of cattle, a little under 205 ears, as long as they last the winter.”

 

John would say there’s pride in Bane’s voice, but there’s something like it. Dignity, maybe, or satisfaction. Either way, John is clearly meant to be impressed so he smiles and doesn’t complain that his ass has once again gone numb.

 

Bane takes John down to the water, setting a rough-hewn blanket on the riverbank and helping John off his horse. John notices Bane watching him rub feeling back into his backside, so he does it a little longer than is necessary. What can he say? He’s in a giving mood. 

 

“So, what about you?” John asks, laying back on the blanket and stretching out his legs. “Where did you grow up?”

 

Bane doesn’t pause in leading the horses to the water, but when he speaks, his tone is curt. “Far from here.”

 

“I figured as much, what with your accent and all,” John says and waits for Bane to elaborate. When he doesn’t, John sits up and pulls his knees to his chest. “My father died in the war. That’s when we lost the farm and moved to the city. Gotham was so big and scary for me back then. Mama died less than a year later. They never did tell me from what, just said she was gone and that if I couldn’t pay the rent, then I’d be out on the street. You ever have to live on the street?”

 

“No,” Bane grumbles, his back still turned. “But I have survived my share of misfortunes.”

 

John smiles, even though Bane can’t see him. “It’s not a competition, I was just curious. You didn’t talk about your past in your letters.”

 

Bane finally turns, draping his arm over his horse’s back. “I do not wish to revisit the things I have done.”

 

“But if we don’t remember the past, we’re doomed to repeat it,” John points out.

 

“I remember everything,” Bane says, his voice weighted with conviction.

 

John nods and wraps his arms tighter around his knees and whispers. “Me too.” 

 

Bane looks at him sharply, but his gaze softens when John gives him a weak smile and Bane leaves the horses to joining John on the blanket.

 

“My life has been… demanding, and I did not always choose the peaceful solution. I have been looked at with fear and anger for most of my life and I do not wish to return to that.” The words are slow and careful, but it’s clear Bane is trying to give him something in return for his candor, and John appreciates that.

 

“Are you happier now? Here?” John asks.

 

“Right here, now, I am content,” Bane tells him softly.

 

They sit for a long while, watching the river rush by as Bane tells him about the ranches and farms in the area. When John grows restless, he wanders around the riverbank, finding plump, dark berries hanging from a bush. 

 

“Hey, can you eat these?”

 

“You may,” Bane says, like John asked for permission.

 

John rolls his eyes with his back turned and picks a few. He waits until he knows Bane is watching to toss one in the air, catching it in his mouth and smiling to himself at the memory of teaching Jonathan and Selina to do the same.

 

“Can you do that every time?” Bane asks, coming closer.

 

“Yep,” John says, smug.

 

“Prove it.”

 

The competitor in John perks up and he arched his neck back and to the side to catch five in a row.. Bane raises an eyebrow and John aims one at him. “How about you?”

 

The sky rumbles and Bane looks up, then back at John, speculatively.

 

“Something the matter?” John asks, still poised to throw the berry.

 

“I wonder what will happen to your suit should it get wet?” Bane muses.

 

“Why?” John asks, as the first fat drops of rain fall.

 

“Flash flood.”

 

John looks up at the sky, squinting when rain falls in his eyes. “How dangerous is that?”

 

“It could be lethal,” Bane tells him, but there’s a challenge in his voice that John can’t help but meet, so he laughs and pops another berry in his mouth, his suit already wet and sticking to his frame. 

 

“I say it’s worth finding out.”

 

Bane watches him closely, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “I believe you are correct.”

 

When they ride home an hour later, John barely notices that he’s soaking wet and uncomfortable because for the first time in his life, he feels free.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who does John run to when he's scared? I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count.

The next day, John is on the front porch, having consented to mending a few of Bane and Barsad’s shirts with his minimal sewing skills, when Barsad comes bolting out of the barn after Bane, who is already atop his horse.

 

“Just take the damn thing,” Barsad tells him, holding a rifle in his outstretched hand.

 

“I will not be gone long,” Bane says and rides off.

 

Barsad curses and shakes his head. He stomps up to the porch and leans the rifle beside the door, sitting on the bench beside John and pulling out a flask, his chest still heaving in anger.

 

“I would offer you a drink, but Bane says you don’t partake.”

 

John’s mouth waters at the sight of the flask. “Well, it’s not that I’m against it.”

 

Barsad nods and passes it over. John takes several healthy swallows, barely stopping himself from smacking his lips when he’s done. The liquor is bracing and just what John needs to settle the nerves that feel like they’ve been on edge for days. Barsad is staring at him with his eyebrows raised when John hands it back.

 

“What’s the gun for?” he asks, trying to draw attention away from himself.

 

Barsad takes a sip. “Cattle rustling. But he won’t take it. He no longer believes in killing. Has his mind set on a life of peace and reason.”

 

John takes back the flask and takes another two swallows, wondering just what Bane has been through to have come to that decision.

 

“You plannin’ on runnin’?” Barsad asks, out of the blue.

 

John pricks his finger with the darning needle. “What?”

 

“Because if you’re plannin’ on runnin’, it would be best if you did it now, rather than drag it out like the last one did.”

 

John sucks on his finger and his heart is pounding and sweat is pooling on his upper lip because he doesn’t have an answer for that. Being here with Bane is easier than he thought it would be, so easy that if pressed, John would admit he feels comfortable. He doesn’t remember feeling that way ever before, and something about it makes him tense. Like he’s waiting for it all to come crashing down. Eventually, Barsad picks up the rifle and leaves, and John goes back to his work, trying to figure out when things got so muddled.

 

Three days later John still doesn’t know. Bane collects him in the morning, packing them a breakfast they can eat in the wagon, and they head into town for supplies. Bane ties the horses up in front of the barber’s and when John sees the stage coach coming down the hill from out of town, he gets an idea. 

 

Bane helps him off the wagon and John squeezes his forearms in thanks, letting his hands linger. “How long are you going to be?”

 

Bane glances at John’s hands on him, but doesn’t comment on it. “An hour, perhaps more. The general store is there, see you find yourself some new clothes and put them on my account.”

 

“I thought you liked my suits,” John teases, his smile sly.

Bane looks him over, slow and thorough. “They are...distracting.”

 

John snorts and Bane walks away as the coach passes them and something akin to guilt pulses through John.

 

“Bane,” he calls out, hurrying up to him. “I just wanted to thank you. For everything.” He takes Bane’s hand in both of his and squeezes. Bane’s gaze is steady, but there’s an alertness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and John can’t help but go up on his toes to press a kiss to his cheek, right in the centre of the bandana. Then he turns away and heads across the street, feeling Bane’s eyes on him the whole time.

 

He lingers outside the store, looking at the goods on display until he’s sure Bane is gone, then he cuts back across the street to the coach office window.

 

“How much to Frisco?” he asks clerk.

 

“Fifteen dollars.”

 

John lets his face go slack, disappointment and worry creasing every line. “Sir, do you believe that people should be honest all the time, no matter what?”

 

The man eyes him warily. “I guess.”

 

John leans closer to the window, raking his eyes over the man. “I’m broke. And I’m  _ desperate _ . And I really need to get to San Francisco.”

 

The man flushes, but shakes his head. “Sorry, sir, wish I could help.” Then he’s gone, fleeing to the back of the office.

 

John glares at his retreating back, then turns to stare longingly at the departing coach. He’s about to head back across the street when Victor comes out of the general store. John presses his back to the building, his pulse skipping as fear crawls up his throat. Victor calls for the coach to hold and the clerk comes scurrying out of the office with his tickets. John slips between two buildings, his hand pressed over his mouth, but unable to look away while Victor berates the man for taking so long. Victor pushes the man and climbs back aboard the coach. 

 

John can barely wait for it to pass him by before he’s running across the muddy street, and into the shelter of the general store. He quickly orders the things they need, changing into a new linen shirt and tan britches and tells the woman behind the counter that they’ll be back for the rest in an hour, then he goes to find Bane.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.

John knew Bane was meeting with the Sheriff about the cattle rustling, but he wasn’t aware the rustler’s themselves would be in attendance, along with some of the other local ranchers. John’s new neighbors, he supposes. He wonders if Bane knew before he arrived.

 

It there’s one thing John considers second nature, it’s knowing things he shouldn’t, so he doesn’t think twice about slipping up to the Sheriff’s door to listen in. Barsad has told him a little about the Sheriff, Jim Gordon, a man he and Bane know from their lives before this one. A good man, Barsad claims, but too lost to his memories to be effective.

 

“Alright, now I’ve seen range wars before,” Gordon says, eyeing the men in front of him. “And we all know what they lead to. Nobody wins. So let’s see if we can’t work this out like civilized men.”

 

Someone says something low that John can’t make out, but all eyes go to Bane and some of the rustlers snicker.

 

“Open range belongs to the League,” a man says, the supposed leader of the rustlers. “You want to graze your herd on our land, then those cattle belong to us.”

 

“I was under the impression the open range belonged to everyone,” Bane says, the other rangers nodding their agreement. Bane sounds calm, but John can hear the carefully hidden anger in his voice. “Isn’t that right,  _ Sheriff _ .” 

 

The way he says it is almost mocking and the Sheriff shifts in place. “Just keep your cattle off League land. All of you.”

 

“And if we do not?” Bane asks.

 

“Then there’ll be rustlin’” the leader states, a hand on his gun.

 

“You got a problem with rustlin’, Bane, just do what we do: shoot ‘em,” Another rustler sneers, and John realizes it’s one of the men they encountered on John’s first day here, the one with the missing fingers. The other rustlers laugh and the man steps forward. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t use a gun.”

 

Bane’s eyes go stone cold, but his voice doesn’t waver. “You are a fool if you think I need a gun to kill you.”

 

The rustler’s still at the open threat in Bane’s words, and even Gordon seems worried. John is entranced by the brutality in Bane’s voice, and he’s not ashamed to admit he’s a little turned on. Bane leads the other ranchers out of the building, leaning in to say something quiet, and no doubt threatening to the Sheriff, who looks shaken and shamed in Bane’s wake.

 

John’s waiting at the bottom of the steps when Bane emerges and Bane calmly takes his arm and leads him back toward the general store for their things.

 

“It is impolite to eavesdrop,” Bane tells him once they’re away from the others.

 

John ignores him, still thrilled by Bane’s display of power. “What did you say to the Sheriff? He looked ready to shit himself.”

 

Bane stops and looks down at John, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “I merely thanked him for his support in the matter.”

 

“That’s cold,” John tells him, grinning.

 

Bane’s eyes roam over John’s new clothes.

 

“What, you don’t like them?” John asks, coyly.

 

“I like them,” Bane says and starts moving again, still holding John’s arm.

 

“Yeah? It’s looser than I’m used to, but at least I’ll be able to get on the horse.”

 

Bane hums, following John up the stairs to the store. John turns and catches him looking at his ass, raising an eyebrow when Bane looks up.

 

“Something wrong with my britches?” John asks innocently.

 

Bane clears his throat. “No, I only wondered if you kept the suit.”

 

John throws his head back and laughs, genuine and bright.

 

Across the street, Victor watches them from post office until they disappear inside. Then he sends a telegram to Gotham.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, John indulges in the good old, time honoured tradition of self abuse and self sabotage. But not at the same time.

John’s been there a week and he feels more off balance than ever. Bane’s been nothing but polite and inviting toward him and John is going a little bit mad from guilt and shame, and feeling like he finally, finally might have found a place in the world where he can just be himself. Only he’s not himself. He’s playing a part. Because Bane thinks he’s Jonathan and John isn’t really who he wants at all.

 

And then there’s the other side of Bane that John sees. The stubborn, confident side that comes out when he’s dealing with the rustlers, or the Sheriff, who rides out one afternoon to try and talk Bane into playing nice with the League. That Bane is full of loaded silences and cunning. A shadow who sneaks out in the black of the night to steal back his cattle and sabotage the League’s advancement on the ranches and farms around Santa Prisca. He refuses to allow John to accompany him, and it’s probably for the best, because when he’s intents on revenge Bane is a dangerous combination of raw power and focus that turns John on like nothing else.

 

So John lays in bed and waits. He waits for hours sometimes, counting and recounting the times when being involved with men like Bane have cost him dearly. Only, John’s pretty sure there are no men like Bane. Except maybe Barsad, but lately John’s been forgetting the other man is even in the room when he has Bane’s attention focused solely on himself. The men of power John has known have all been like Bruce Wayne; hungry and willing to do anything to get ahead. Always looking for more. More money, more time, more pretty things to use up and cast aside.

 

Bane is none of those things. He’s a man trying to make good with his life after surviving God knows what to get where he is. A man intent on sticking to his morals in order to keep it. And John can’t help the way he’s come to feel about that. So he waits in the dark until he hears Bane’s horse, and then he wraps a hand around himself and thinks about welcoming Bane home properly, like a warrior come home from battle. He spends himself, imagining Bane’s cloth covered face pressed to the back of his neck, Bane’s wide, calloused hands gripping his hips as he exhausts his adrenaline inside John.

 

It’s exciting, and terrifying, like a nightmare John wants to come true.

 

The day of the engagement party, Bane hitches the horses to the wagon and the ride out just before sunset, heading in the opposite direction as usual. Barsad elects to stay home, even after John insists he come along. He refuses, telling John it’ll be good for his ears to have a rest from Bane’s incessant chatter. Bane huffs and snaps the reins, pulling away from the house. When John looks back, he sees Barsad settled on the porch, the rifle across his lap, and he wonders if they’re really just worried about the rustlers taking advantage of Bane’s absence.

 

They ride for nearly an hour, the sun having set long since set by the time they arrive. There are horses and wagons lined up in front of a farmhouse double the size of theirs. Bane’s, John reminds himself, not theirs. Not John’s.

 

Everyone comes out to meet them, light spilling from the open doorway as people pour out with welcoming smiles. It quickly becomes apparent that Bane is well liked amongst his neighbours. He may not be understood, but he’s respected. No one makes a big deal about his face covering, and no one questions it, save for a small girl who asks if he has any kerchiefs with flowers on them, and if not, would he like one.

 

Bane leaves the house to change the cloth, but he wears it proudly all night, making it hard for John to look away from him. Bane doesn’t eat or dance, but he speaks to everyone, acknowledging their presence, and thanking them for attending and welcoming John. He hears some talk about the range line and The League’s men growing more restless and less controlled, but the answer he hears over and over is Bane.

The neighbours all seem to be misfits like Bane and Barsad, taking their second chances by way of hard work and honest living. They tell stories about train robberies and bootlegging that John swears he read about in the papers when he was a kid, but their inherent  _ goodness _ rankles him. Like it’s that easy to walk away and reinvent yourself. Like anyone could have that chance. Jonathan didn’t get that. John couldn’t give it to him, and all Selina gained for her trouble was a lead ball in her shoulder. If she’s even still alive.

It eats at him, tearing through his skin and burrowing until John is itching with the guilt and the unfairness of it all. He doesn’t deserve to be here with these people. They’re trying to make their lives matter, make their sacrifices worth something, and all John’s doing is biding his time until he runs again. Until he takes all the care and comfort that’s been shown to him and leaves it in the dust.

 

He knows Bane suspects him, but instead of pushing him away, it makes him cling tighter to John. Like he can convince him to stay with honesty and dry humour. Like all John needs in the world is the way Bane looks at him as though he can see their future together. But John’s not like that, he can’t be. He’s a hustler, and a conman, and he’s destined to spend his life on the move. Always looking for his next score, the next mark. And that’s all Bane really is, isn’t he? The mark. John lied to get here and he lied to stay. It’s in his nature. So why does lying to leave feel like it’s more than he’s capable of?

 

He needs to do something to turn Bane away from him. To make Bane want him to leave. It’s the only way John can go without despising himself. He eyes the people on the dance floor and sneers. Well, if there’s one things he’s good for, it’s making the most of an opportunity.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves, it's about to go down.

They don’t return home until the sun is rising and John is drowsing against Bane’s shoulder when Barsad nudges him awake and helps him down.

 

“What did you do while we were gone?” John asks him, once his feet are safely on the ground.

 

Barsad looks him dead in the eye and says, “Laundry.”

 

John chuckles and pats him on the arm, stumbling towards the house. Bane comes in a few minutes later while John is getting ready for bed. His shirt is open and his pants hang low on his hips and Bane studies him for a minute before speaking.

 

“Did you enjoy the evening?” Bane asks carefully, in a tone John hasn’t heard before.

 

John smiles. “Yes, I did. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long while.”

 

Bane is still staring at him, and though there’s no change in the set of his features that John can identify, his attention feels cold in the wake of John’s answer. Was he not supposed to enjoy himself? Bane’s surely not jealous of the other men John danced with. But he had watched John the entire night. Even when speaking to others, Bane’s eyes always returned quickly to him.

 

That’s when John starts to get nervous. Bane watched him. Watched him so closely his gaze was almost a physical touch that John could feel as he moved. As he laid the path for his departure.

 

“We have unfinished business.” Bane brushes past John on his way to the cupboard, and John worries that Bane is going for the letters Jonathan sent. Guilt, and a jealousy John can’t make sense of, stir inside him. He loved Jonathan, but he’s not the one here with Bane. Bane is John’s now.

 

A moment of pure, suffocating panic crashes into him at the thought, and it doesn’t help when Bane pulls out a pen and an inkwell and sets it next to a document he must have pulled out while John was lost in thought.  _ Petition of Marriage _ is scrawled across the top.

 

“I was engaged once before,” Bane tells him, dipping the pen into the ink. “Years ago. He was too soft and did not take to this lifestyle.” 

 

Bane fiddles with the pen, something John’s never seen him do. In all things, Bane seems so confident and controlled. But this, marriage, to John, has his nerves showing.

 

“Did not take to me.”

 

John bites his lip and clenches his fists. “I’m sorry.”

 

John’s voice seems to shake Bane from his reverie and back into the hardened demeanor he’d adopted before. He scribbles his name across the bottom of the page and holds out the pen to John, challenge in his eyes.

 

“Now is the time to settle any doubts, John.”

 

John stares down at the paper. Such a flimsy little thing, really. That’s not even his name on there, and yet he still can’t make himself sign. It’s not his name. He was never the one Bane wanted, and the realization turns him cold, all the good cheer from the night bleeding out of him and slipping through the spaces between the planks on the floor.

 

He’s not Jonathan, and he never could be. But maybe, if he shows his hand a little, he could just be John and have Bane still want him. Maybe he can convince Bane to keep him. 

 

John turns to Bane and does what he does best; he improvises.

 

The first kiss lands to the left of its mark, but John throwing himself at Bane seems to have shocked the man, and John has time to correct his placement and press another kiss through the covering over Bane’s lips. John clings to Bane, is hands clamped tight behind his neck, forcing Bane to bend down into his space.

 

There’s nothing for long enough that John should pull away, but he’s desperate, and hungry, and if Bane doesn’t want this, he’s more than capable of pushing John away. 

 

Bane finally moves, his hands clamping around John’s thighs and picking him up effortlessly, wrapping John’s long legs around his waist and groaning when John’s mouth trails down his neck. It’s hard to kiss someone through cotton, and John needs to taste Bane. To put his mouth to Bane’s flesh and feel him on his tongue. Bane’s grip tightens and he steps toward the bed, dropping them both to the mattress and pinning John beneath him with his substantial weight. 

 

John writhes as Bane’s hands start to roam, petting over the soft skin of his stomach and digging into the hollows between Johns ribs. Bane’s hand fits perfectly there, like the bones of his hands are the antithesis of how John is put together. Opposite, but parallel. Two pieces of the same puzzle.

 

And then Bane is pulling away, his brow pinched as though he’s in pain, and no matter how hard John tries to keep him there, Bane gets to his feet.

 

“You don’t have to stop,” John pants.

 

“Yes, I do,” Bane says, his words bitter and his countenance remorseful. “That is too much for a goodbye kiss.” He grabs hold of the blanket and heaves it down, almost tossing John to the floor, and uncovering the pile of items John lifted from the neighbors.

 

His face flames, and all he can do is stare at the baubles, evidence that he was never meant for a man as good as Bane. Bane takes a handful of items and throws them, John flinching as they bounce off his chest and clang to the floor.

 

“These are good people,” Bane tells him, his voice so cold it makes John want to weep. “They have sacrificed much to try and undo the wrongs they have done. They deserve better than this.”

 

“I—I know,” John starts.

 

“They travelled for miles to wish you well, and this is how you thank them.”

 

John steps forward, trying to explain. “No, I didn’t, I mean, I did, but—”

 

“When are you leaving?” Bane asks, and John goes still. “I have very little of value here, but you are welcome to it all for your trouble.”

 

“I never took from you,”

 

“Yes, you did,” Bane says and it’s sharp, and dangerous, and John starts to realize what a massive error he’s made. “I do not know how you came into possession of my letters, but you will give them back to me. They were meant for someone else.”

 

“And he got them!” John blurts. “I know you probably won’t believe me, but he did. His name was Jonathan Crane, and he was my best friend.” John’s voice cracks at the name, but it feels impossibly good to say.

 

“Then why is he not here?” Bane asks, and John can feel the sob building in his chest.

 

He takes a steadying breath and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Because he’s dead. He died the day I left Gotham. I swear to you that he wanted to come, but he was sick.”

 

Bane sits on the corner of the bed, his gaze distant.

 

“He didn’t know when he answered your advertisement, and by the time we knew what it was, he was already in love with you. Your letters were everything to him, they kept him alive much longer than I could have. I’m so sorry, Ba—”

 

“Who are you?” Bane interrupts, his voice thick and muffled by the cloth.

 

“My, my name is John Robin Blake. I’m sorry, and I know I shouldn’t have come here, but Jonathan asked me to. I had nowhere else to go.”

 

“How fortunate for me,” Bane drawls.

 

“There’s a man in Gotham who wants to kill me,” John confesses, knowing this is the time for honesty. “He thinks I stole ten thousand dollars from him.”

 

“Did you?”

 

“Technically I stole it from the man he was going to steal it from. His names is Bruce Wayne and he owns me.” John expects Bane to scoff, to claim that no one person can own another, but Bane just looks like he understands, and somehow, that hurts more. ”Jonathan was like my brother. It’s always been me, him, and Selina, our sister. My folks died when I was very young and that was when we found each other. Made a family of our own. I was the oldest so it was my job to protect them and I did what I had to do. One day I stuck my hand in the wrong pocket and he gave me a choice: jail or him.”

 

“How old were you?” Bane asks quietly.

 

John looks up and is startled by the tenderness on Bane’s face. “Twelve.”

 

Bane nods, accepting John’s honesty. “What did...Jonathan do?”

 

“I found him a job in a textile factory with Wayne’s connections. I thought he’d be safe there,” John tells him, pressing a hand to his mouth to collect himself.. “I swore I’d never let Wayne get his hands on him, but he was too beautiful. He was the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and Wayne couldn’t let an opportunity like that go to waste. But he was good, Bane, I swear it. He was the sunshine in our lives and it broke my heart when he died.”

 

John is panting, but it’s keeping the tears at bay, so he goes on. “We have a sister, Selina. She’s a nun. Well, mostly. She works in this little church in Gotham. The priest there is a drunk so she’s got the run of the place. It’s a plain building, but the windows are all made up of tiny colored pieces of glass and laid together they make the most amazing pictures.”

 

As soon as John stops talking, the dread comes back.  He worries that he’s gone too far, done too much, for Bane to… God, John doesn’t even know what the best outcome is anymore. Does he want Bane to let him go? To accept that John is leaving and send him on his way? Or does he want Bane to put up a fight and demand he stay. Make him sign the contract and live out life as the man Bane’s was promised.

 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” John continues. “I wouldn’t ask that of you. But if Wayne shows up and I’m still here, this place won’t survive it.”

 

Bane contemplates him for a minute and John does his best not to squirm. “I should turn you into the sheriff.”

 

John’s heart leaps into his throat.

 

“You may take the next carriage out of town,” Bane finally tells him.

 

“Thank you,” John chokes out, not sure if he’s more relieved that he won’t have to watch Bruce hurt Bane, or that Bane won’t have to watch Bruce hurt John.

 

“The next carriage is in two weeks. Get dressed and meet me in the barn.”

 

“Why?” John asks, nervous.

 

“As long as you are here, you will do your fair share,” Bane explains. “Do not make me come back for you.”

 

The door slams closed and John slumps to the floor, curling in on himself and letting out a sob. Maybe Bane won’t turn him in, but he doesn’t want him anymore, either, and right now, that feels worse.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful comments on this fic! I have been totally overwhelmed with the love for these two and all their silly feelings in the wild, wild west!

For the next week, John works harder than he ever has. Bane and Barsad take advantage of the extra pair of hands and show him how to fix fencing, chop wood, and muck out stalls. He feels useful in a way John hasn’t known since he was a boy helping on his parent’s farm, and it eases the tension between himself and Bane. 

 

If Barsad notices anything, and John knows he must, he doesn’t say, happy to direct John on how to dig up and store the last of the vegetables from the garden. It’s getting colder now, and though it’s much warmer than Gotham is at this time of year, winter has clearly arrived.

 

The one thing John has come to rely on amidst all the turmoil, is that no matter what they’ve accomplished in a day, as soon as the sun starts to set, Bane will come for him, leading the horses. They’ll ride off together, side by side, both deep in thought, and John won’t feel nervous until he sees the houses. He knows better than to protest, knows that this is his penance for the things he stole, and so, one by one, Bane takes him to return the items. He explains over and over, forcing himself to witness the anger and disappointment in the eyes of the people he betrayed. But mostly, what he sees is compassion. Understanding. Familiarity. Like the place where John is stuck is but a checkpoint on the journey of his life and they’ve all been there. It makes him feel weak, and ashamed. But most of all, it makes him feel hope.

 

On what is sure to be the last halfway mild day of the year, Bane takes John to the furthest field to finish building the fence bordering Bane’s land and the range. John digs holes for the posts for three hours before he gives in and takes a break. His arms and shoulders are aching, nearly limp at his sides, but there’s no way he’s going to stop before Bane does. He wanders closer to where Bane is working and grabs the canteen, taking a large swig and then holding it out to Bane. John’s never seen him drink, or eat, but he must do it.

 

“Can I ask you a question?” John asks, squinting into the sun.

 

Bane doesn’t say no, but he doesn’t react in any way that might be construed as encouraging. Nevertheless, John plows on.

 

“Why are you building this fence?’

 

Bane doesn’t pause in his work. “You know why.”

 

John does, they’d spoken at length, before, about how the League is slowly, but surely taking over the free range land. Paying off officials to keep the plath clear and encroaching on the farm lands. John knows that, and he knows what the locals are doing to fight it. He knows about Sheriff Gordon being paid off, and the threats the League has made against Bane, but there’s one giant piece of the puzzle he’s still missing.

 

“Why are you letting them get away with it?” John demands. “Why are you just sitting here, playing the good neighbour when the men from the League would just as soon shoot you as look at you?”

 

“I am building a fence,” Bane tells him, calmly.

 

“Fuck your fence!” John shouts, suddenly overwhelmed with the anger that those men could hurt Bane, and terrified that Bane might let them. “We both know the fence isn’t going to stop them. They’ll knock it down and take another 50 acres. What happens when they reach your door, Bane? What will your pacifism net you then, huh?”

 

“I am not a pacifist,” Bane grinds out.

 

“Look, I understand that you don’t believe in killing, but they won’t stop until you have nothing left. They will kill you, Bane!”

 

Bane stares at him, his quick breaths the only sign that he’s heard John’s words. His worry.

 

“I did not suggest that death is not a powerful message. I simply chose to stop being the messenger.”

 

The words halt John as he tries to imagine the circumstances that make a man like Bane. His eyes dart to the cloth over Bane’s face and the body scarring John has only had glimpses of. He thinks about the esteem Bane has earned from the people here, and his confession that the only respect he ever thought to have would be through fear, and John’s heart breaks.

 

“Look, all I know is that if I’d tried to live on principals, I’d have been dead a long time ago,” John tells him, his voice strained and cracking. He wants to lean against Bane’s chest, to offer him comfort of some kind. To somehow, someway be in this together.

 

“How fortunate then, that this is not your burden to bear,” Bane says quietly, and walks away.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about pigs except that they will eat almost anything and that they are the worst smell to ever assault my nose. Think of this chapter as a bridge between where John and Bane are and where they think they maybe might want to be. And there's a pig.

That night, John is out on the porch putting salve on his much-abused hands while Barsad peels potatoes. Bane went into town in advance of the storm that’s on the horizon, and has yet to return. John eyes the dark storm clouds coming in and wonders if Bane will make it back before they open. Barsad told him they wouldn’t get snow when John had asked earlier, and he’s been quietly grumpy about it since. A Christmas without snow seems wrong after living in Gotham most of his life. But John reminds himself that he won’t be here for Christmas, that the carriage departs in four days, on Christmas Eve, and he’ll be on it, so really, he should be happy the roads will be clear. God forbid Bane be stuck with him a moment longer than he has to be.

 

“I have never been so miserable in my life,” John says, working the salve into his skin.

 

“You’re pretty cut up,” Barsad agrees.

 

John takes a deep breath. “I don’t mean my hands.”

 

Barsad’s gaze slides over to John, and the flask appears in his hand.

 

John snorts. “I doubt that will help.”

 

“Can’t hurt,” Barsad shrugs.

 

John accepts the flask, takes a moderated sip, and blurts out what’s been on his mind for days, before he loses his nerve. “Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”

 

Barsad takes the flask and sits back. “Hard to say. I wouldn’t.”

 

John sighs slumps in his chair. “Thanks.”

 

“Have you apologized?” Barsad asks, going back to the potatoes.

 

“Yes, I have. More than once.”

 

“For what?”

 

John sits up. “What do you mean?”

 

“You did a lot of things. Some wrongdoings require bigger apologies.”

 

“Well, I told him I was sorry for coming here, for reading his letters, for pretending to be Jonathan... for stealing,” John gumbles.

 

Barsad nods. “And what of breaking his heart? Have you apologized for that yet?”

 

John sputters. “You’re crazy if you think I ever had Bane’s heart. He hates me.”

 

“There are two parts to an apology, John, the part where you say the words, and the part that comes before it. When you accept and acknowledge what you have done. You can’t really do the second part without doing the first. It doesn’t mean anything if you do.”

 

“So you’re saying I have to accept that I broke Bane’s heart?”

 

“You don’t  _ have _ to do anything,” Barsad smirks and takes his potatoes inside.

 

John sits outside until he sees Bane ride through the gate, then he goes to hide in his room until dinner is ready. As usual, Bane doesn’t eat in front of him, but he does sit and talk to Barsad, discussing the running of the ranch and recounting the news he’s learned about the League’s men. Word is the League is behind on wages, claiming hard times despite the money they save by cattle rustling and stealing land. The men are angry, maybe desperate, and looking for a reason to leave.

 

John wants to speak up and tell them paying off the men won’t do anything but draw this out, but as Bane said, it’s not his burden to bear. So it doesn’t matter that he knows that the League will only send more men. Stricter men with looser morals and deeper bloodthirst. Instead, John eats his dinner and thinks. He tries to pay attention to Bane’s body language towards him, but there isn’t much to read. He doesn’t acknowledge John at all, going even so far as to turn his back to John as he speaks to Barsad, and John has the urge to scream and shout, to plunge the tip of his knife into Bane’s back, just to prove that he’s not as insignificant as Bane makes him feel. 

 

“I finished the back fence while you were galavanting in town,” John says, popping a piece of potato into his mouth and talking around it.

 

Bane stops speaking, but he doesn’t turn around.

 

“You’re obviously going to go up and check it, but it’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

 

Barsad smirks at him over Bane’s shoulder, but Bane remains rooted in place.

 

“Did you know I had a piglet when I was little? I named him Perses, for reasons which would have been obvious if you ever met him.”

 

“Perses was the Titan of destruction and peace,” Bane says after a moment, cautious.

 

“Yes, he was.” John nearly collapses in relief. “If I had a pig here I’d name them Demeter, for the farming and and harvest and all that.”

 

“Not for the fertility?” Barsad asks, taking his plate to the sink.

 

“Demeter was a Goddess,” Bane tells him, half turning in his seat, and he’s not facing John, but this is miles better than it was. “Female pigs make better pets.”

 

“Why is that?” John croaks, fighting to keep it together.

 

“Because we slaughter the males,” Bane says, and John swears there’s the smallest hint of humour in his words.

 

“Then Demeter it is.” This time, John can’t hide his smile.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'awwww, feelings!

The next day is spent surveying Bane’s land, checking for anything the storm might have damaged. They fix a few fence posts and wrangle a lost longhorn, and John ends the day with mud up to his elbows, but he can’t find it in himself to mind because Bane didn’t need John to help him with this, and he brought him along anyway.

 

They stop by the riverbend to wash up a bit and Bane surprises John by unpacking the horses.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“The mud in the valley is cause for concern. We need to stay here and monitor the herd,” Bane tells him, laying out bedrolls and food.

 

“We’re just going to sleep out here? You and me?”

 

Bane pauses in unsaddling John’s horse. “Would you rather ride back alone?”

 

“No! No, I’m fine, I’m good, it’s good. Yeah. I’m going to go find some firewood,” John sputters and hurries off. 

 

By the time he gets back to their camp, Bane has the horses cleaned and secured, the bedrolls set out, one on either side of where the fire will be, and he’s sitting on a fallen log, his bandana in his hands. John freezes, Bane’s eyes lock onto him in challenge, like he’s daring John to look. And look, he does. The lower portion of Bane’s face is pale, a wide scar curving over his cheek to bisect his once-lush lips. His chin is uneven, like it was badly broken and left to heal unset, and there’s a section missing from his left nostril. John sees all of that, like Bane obviously wanted him to, but that’s not all he sees. After all these weeks he can spot the vulnerability in the gentle slouch of Bane’s shoulders, the false bravado in the tilt to his chin. But most of all, John knows the look in Bane’s eyes. Knows it like he knows himself because it’s a look that cries out ‘See me and want me anyway’.

 

“I like the blue bandana the best; it brings out the vexation in your eyes when I ask a question for the third time,” John says. Bane visibly relaxes at the gentle tease, retying the cloth at the back of his head. “Although, that little girl would be be upset if she knew you hadn’t worn the flowered one again.”

 

Bane huffs and sets about stacking wood for the fire. John hands him pieces until the flames are high, beating back the cold of the evening. Bane goes for more wood while John puts together the food, and then they sit and eat, side by side on the log, companionable, but not touching.

 

John finishes his sandwich and clutches his cup of spiced tea as he looks up at the stars. “This place makes me feel so small.”

 

“Have you slept outside before?” Bane asks.

 

John shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Doorways, alleys, one memorable week on the roof of a whore house. It’s not really the same as this.”

 

“I imagine not.”

 

John stares at the side of Bane’s face, smiling unsurely when Bane turns to him.

 

“What is it?” Bane asks.

 

John tightens his grip on the tin cup until the heat of it sears through his fingers. “I was just wondering… if we’d met under different circumstances, if you’d actually like me.”

 

Bane turns back to the fire, shadows dancing across his face. “No.”

 

John nods, feeling bereft. How Barsad can look him in the eye and say that he has stolen Bane’s heart is beyond him. Bane is still acting cut off and cold, like John isn’t worth his time, and... John realizes suddenly that it’s exactly what he would do, if someone had hurt him. Except John would have retreated further into himself, grown more remote and hardened himself against further pain. He wouldn’t sit next to that person at the dinner table, night after night, working beside them during the day. Teaching them, clothing them, giving them independence. And he certainly wouldn’t have trapped them together for a night and shown that person what he perceived to be his biggest weakness.

 

He looks at Bane, the breadth, and the bulk, and the shape of the man. He’s intelligent, and funny, he’s kind, and fair, and he’s the only one in John’s life to ever make him feel like they are on equal footing. Like they’re partners. And John ruined it all.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, startling Bane. “I hurt you, and I see that now, and I’m sorry. I never meant to for that, I couldn’t see past my own fear, and by doing that I didn’t see you there. I regret that more than I can express. But I understand if you can’t forgive me. I really do.”

 

Bane pokes at the fire with a switch while John holds his breath.

 

“You should get some sleep, John. Morning comes early out here,” Bane rasps before standing up and walking into the darkness.

 

John does as he’s told, gulping his tea, wrapping up the remains of their meal, and crawling into his bedroll. He cushions his head on his arm and presses his grin into the crease of his elbow. Bane may not forgive him yet, but that’s the first time he’s used John’s name since their fight. That’s progress.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wayne appears, Bane emotes, John freaks out. You're welcome.

When they arrive home, early the next morning, John goes straight for the chicken coop, determined to make his own breakfast, and maybe Bane’s too. He’s smiling when he comes out of the coop, so he doesn’t notice the riders right away. Barsad is standing in front of them, calm as ever, but there’s a rifle slung across his chest, and a dangerous smile on his face. First, John wonders if Bane can hear them from where he’s brushing down the horses in the barn, then he wonders why the League only sent two men.

 

The taller of the riders turns and John nearly drops the eggs.

 

“Well, well, if it isn’t my missing jewel,” Wayne calls out. “Country life looks good on you, sweetheart.”

 

Bane slips out of the barn, taking measured steps until he’s between Wayne and John. “Why are you here?”

 

“I suppose my boy has told you who I am. I’m here to do you a favor, Mr. Bane. He’s not the marrying type, you see,” he gives Bane a smile meant to make him feel like the two of them are sharing something. Like the fact that John is difficult is a secret they both know. “John, get your things, we’re leaving.”

 

“No,” John shakes his head. “I’m staying right here.”

 

“Do you need more time?” Wayne asks, cocking his head. “I thought by now you’d have taken him for everything he’s worth.”

 

John’s hands curl into fist, the weave of the basket cutting into his palm.

 

“He said he’s staying,” Barsad drawls, adjusting the gun in his arms.

 

Wayne huffs a laugh, looking at Victor like he can’t believe this is happening. John knows that look, and nothing good ever comes from it. “I don’t think you gentlemen understand how this works. You see, he belongs to me, same way that you own those cattle out there. Why, he’s even branded.”

 

“Get off my land,” Bane tells him, stepping forward fast enough to spook Wayne’s horse.

 

Barsad cocks the rifle, holding it aloft and aimed at Wayne, who looks from Bane to Barsad, then over to John. He tips his hat and smiles.

 

“It’s been a pleasure. I’m sure I’ll be seeing the three of you again real soon.” He guides his horse around and sets off at a gallop, Victor following after sending John a wicked smirk.

 

None of them move until the riders disappear over the ridge, and then John stumbles forward. “They’ll soon be back, and in greater numbers.”

 

“I will handle him,” Bane says, still watching the ridge.

 

“You don’t know him.”

 

“I do not know you either,” Bane points out, but he turns to look at John with a look that softens his words.

 

“Are you sure you want to?” John asks with a nervous laugh.

 

“I’m still standing here,” Bane says and takes the basket of eggs from John’s hand.

 

Bane disappears after breakfast, taking his horse and riding off to brood, Barsad says, but John can’t help but worry the entire time he’s away, knowing Wayne is out there, watching. Barsad lures him into a game of checkers when it starts to rain, and they become so competitive, John nearly misses Bane riding past the window. He pulls on a slicker and runs to the barn, Barsad close behind him. Bane is soaked through and there’s a cut over his right eye, blood trickling down his face.

 

“What happened?” Barsad demands, handing the reins to John and forcing Bane to lean on him.

 

“It seems John’s friend has the support of the League’s men,” Bane growls, his face going white when Barsad tries to make him walk.

 

John leaves the horse, coming around to pull back Bane’s coat and push up his shirt. He tries to bat John away, but John’s quicker, and he swears when he sees the gash over Bane’s ribs.

 

“Get him onto the bed and boil some water, I’ll finish with the horse and be right there.”

 

Barsad nods and does as he’s told, practically dragging Bane through the mud. John puts the horse away in a daze, his mind already six steps ahead and wondering if they have thread strong enough for sutures because he knows Bane isn’t going to take the time to rest and heal. When John gets back to the house, Bane is laying on the blanket, shivering.

 

“We need to strip him and warm him.”

 

“I know,” Barsad snaps. “He won’t let me touch him.”

 

John turns to Bane, glaring. “This is not the time for heroics. I know you’re mortal and you need patching up.”

 

“My face,” Bane pants. “Is not the worst of it.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “No, the worst of you is when someone puts a knife away wet or doesn’t refill the kettle. I don’t care what you look like, I care if you die.”

 

Bane stares at him, lips pressed tight against the pain, then he starts kicking off his boots.

 

“Let me do that, you’re shivering so hard you’re eyes are crossing,” John mutters, tugging off the boots and letting them drop to the floor. Barsad comes over to help with Bane’s pants, and John gets an eyeful he’ll be certain to be grateful for later. Bane clings once again to his shirt until John threatens to cut it away with a knife. The scars here are the worst, he learns. The thick seam trailing from the nape of Bane’s neck to the base of his spine is old and gnarled, but the lines across his upper back are newer and unmistakable. 

 

He pushes away the vision of Bane tied to a post, back bared to a whip, and rolls him, freeing his sodden shirt from the hulk of his body. They cover him with everything they have, and Barsad stokes the fire until John is sweating, his eyes stinging as he carefully threads a needle and gets to work.

 

“Where did you learn this?” Barsad asks softly, holding a lantern so John can see.

 

“Here and there,” he says, tying off a stitch. “You learn quickly when you’re the one that needs the mending.”

 

“You’re useful,” Barsad says, like he’s surprised.

 

John shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he return to his task.

 

Later, when Bane is resting and the blood has been cleaned away, John sits at his side, rereading Bane and Jonathan’s letters and stealing glances at Bane’s uncovered face. It’s not the shock of the scars, it’s just that he’s so unused to seeing it. It’s a new part of Bane and he wants to memorize it before it’s gone.

 

“There’s so much poetry in these,” John says when Bane starts to shift around.

 

“You are surprised,” Bane says, his voice like gravel.

 

“A little. I mean, I read them before I came, but I didn’t really understand them. Reading them now, after getting to know you, it’s...well, it’s different.”

 

“How so?” Bane asks, wincing when he tries to turn onto his side.

 

“Careful,” John scolds, coming closer so Bane doesn’t have to. “I just mean that I can see you writing these. The hope and the earnestness. You really did open yourself up to Jonathan. I’m sorry that I encroached on that.”

 

“I am not,” Bane says, his fingers circling John’s wrist. “But I must insist you be truthful with me from now on.”

 

John raises an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’ll be truthful with me?”

 

“I have never been untruthful,” Bane insists.

 

“You refuse to answer any questions about your past,” John points out.

 

“But I do not lie about it.”

 

“Fine, be that way,” John huffs and sits back against the pillow.

 

“John,” Bane says quietly, tightening his hold on John’s wrist, and it feels like his touch will leave a mark down to the bone, it’s so grounding. “When Wayne said he branded you...”

  
  


“I’ll leave with Wayne,” John blurts, trying to free his arm from Bane’s grip. He can’t do this. Can’t sit here and be broken down by Bane, like he’s a yearling learning to run. “Things were fine before I got here, and they’ll leave you alone once I’m gone.”

 

“John, stop.” Bane shakes him a little and John’s teeth clack together. 

 

“It’s okay, I get it. You didn’t believe me when I said he owned me. I should have told you then. I know how hard it is to look at another man’s hand on—”

 

“I care not for the marks on your flesh, but only for the marks upon your soul,” Bane says quietly, and all the fight goes out of John. “You did not turn from me and I will not turn from you.”

 

“That’s different, you didn’t, you didn’t cause yours. I went willingly to him,” John whispers, tears falling down his cheeks.

 

“You did what was needed to feed your family, John. That is noble and brave. You are the bravest person I know.”

 

John actually laughs at that. “Have you met yourself? Because you showed your back to five men who were ready to shoot you, and you didn’t even blink.”

 

“And you are willing to face your own death to protect me and mine,” Bane says, raising their hands and trailing John’s fingers over his own broken lips.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” John says, shivering. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

 

“Then stay. Stay with me and we will face them together.” Bane pulls him down until they’re lying side by side, John curled towards Bane’s body. “Stay, John.”

 

John’s fingertips explore the bumps and hollows of Bane’s face, mapping the skin he so rarely sees, and Bane’s eyes flutter closed. He pushes into the touch and John smiles, slipping the tip of his thumb between Bane’s lips.

 

“I want to kiss you,” he admits. “Can I do that?”

 

Bane looks pained for a moment, but he nods, keeping his eyes closed tightly.

 

“Hey, look at me,” John whispers, cupping Bane’s crooked jaw.

 

“John,” Bane says, his voice wracked with emotion.

 

“Please. I need to know you want me, too.”

 

Bane’s eyes snap open, filled with desire and fear. “I  _ crave _ you. From the first moment, I have wanted you to be mine, even when I knew you were not who you claimed to be. And now…”

 

“Now?” John asks, breathless.

 

Bane’s hands tighten on him, pulling John closer, until the front of his body is pressed fully against the side of Bane. “Now I need you, John. And I am not familiar with the fear that brings with it.”

 

John’s shaking and he wants to lick into Bane’s mouth, open up and devour him whole, but he’s scared, too, and he knows they need to move slow or the flame between them will burn them both to ashes. He presses a kiss to Bane’s lips, gentle, but firm. A promise that he feels the same and that he won’t let Bane drift alone.

 

“You should sleep,” John says, stroking the side of Bane’s face when he pulls back.

 

“Will you stay?” Bane asks, tired, sore, and uncharacteristically vulnerable.

 

John smiles and kisses him again. “They couldn’t drag me away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First person to recognize the Alec Guinness line gets a 500 word TDKR drabble as a Christmas present!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about to get all action packed! We're in the home stretch now so expect mini cliffhangers for the next few chapters.

When John wakes the sun is already high, if weak, in the sky. Bane is gone, but the flowered bandana is folded into the shape of a small bird on the pillow next to him, and John smiles. He can hear Barsad banging around in the kitchen, so he gets dressed and makes the bed.

 

“Good afternoon,” John says, and as he’s rising onto his toes to stretch out his tired muscles, Bane comes through the door, solid, but graceful, and not at all like a man who was stabbed twelve hours earlier.

 

“You’re looking better,” Barsad remarks.

 

Bane nods, his eyes flitting to John quickly. “I am well.”

 

Barsad snorts. “Glad to see you two have worked out your differences.”

 

“You going to give us a running commentary?” John asks, grinning at Bane.

 

“This gourmet cooking comes at a price,” Barsad teases.

 

“You know what is coming,” Bane says, abruptly changing the tone of the conversation.

 

Barsad’s eyebrows go up the tiniest bit, but the acerbity in the gesture is clear. “As always, I will stand by you, brother.”

 

“I want you to take John and go.”

 

“What? No!” John cries over Barsad’s calm refusal.

 

“John does not appear to accept that, and neither do I. I won’t leave you here alone.”

 

“I am more than capable of defending myself, I don’t require your assistance,” Bane tells him dismissively.

 

Barsad slams the plate of biscuits onto the table and John starts at the uncharacteristic show of emotion.. “This is my home, too.”

 

Bane stares Barsad down, but after a minute, he relents, sighing and reaching for his coffee. John sits, stock still as Bane puts the cup to his lips. John hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t wearing a bandana, and now Bane is sitting there, looking for all the world like consuming anything in front of John is commonplace. His throat feels thick and tears prickle at his eyes as emotion floods through him. Bane trusts him. 

 

Bane’s eyes meet his over the rim of his cup, and John knows he can see gratitude written across his face, but before either of them can comment, a rifle is fired and a bullet punches through the window and imbeds itself in the wall above Bane’s shoulder.

 

“Get down!” Barsad tells them, shoving John off his chair.

 

“John,” Wayne’s voice taunts from outside. “I’m not leaving without you.”

 

John swears and Barsad crawls to the bed, pulling a crate out from underneath it.

 

“You’ll lose everything, Bane,” Bruce continues, shouting to be heard. “He worth that to you?”

 

John squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the mocking truth in Wayne’s words. If he stays, Bane and Barsad will pay, and he can’t live with that. “I’m going out there,” he hisses, but Bane’s hand clamps down on his arm.

 

“Stay down. I will not lose you to their incompetence.”

 

John tries to struggle, but the men outside start shooting, bullets whizzing through the walls around them and shattering the windows. Barsad pulls a rifle out of the crate, and it’s unlike anything John’s ever seen. The barrel is twice the size of a normal rifle and there’s a long scope running parallel to it, held in place by some sort of screw contraption.

 

“What is that thing?” John asks as Barsad calmly loads the weapon and makes his way to the front window.

 

“That is Barsad’s right arm,” Bane tells him, and before John can ask what that means, Barsad braces the barrel on his forearm and fires. Outside, one of the men falls off his horse, laying still on the ground.

 

He gets off three more shots, all deadly accurate, before the others figure out what’s happening. 

 

“Sharp shooter!” One of them yells, and they scatter. The shooting continues, but at a slower rate, and Bane is able to drag John behind the cupboard, giving him a little more shelter, but as soon as Bane leaves his side, John sneaks under the canvas to his bag at the end of the bed and pulls out his Remington-Elliot double barrel repeater. It may be small, but it packs a wallop, and they can use all the help they can get.

 

John presses himself below the window, waiting for someone to draw near enough to hit. Beyond the canvas, Bane and Barsad are arguing about Barsad leaving to fetch the Sheriff. 

 

“I should go,” John says, cutting off their bickering. “This about me, I’m the one who should leave.”

 

“You’d never make it out the gate with the way you ride,” Barsad tells him.

 

John glares and opens his mouth to argue, but Bane speaks up. “John is right. He should go.”

 

John gasps, a surge of hurt coursing through him at Bane’s cold words, despite his own insistence he leave. Barsad looks from Bane to John and back again, a smile curving over his lips. 

  
“I believe you’re right, brother.  _ John _ should go.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger ahead! You've been warned.

It’s a stupid plan, and it shouldn’t work, except that it does, brilliantly. Barsad strips and John redresses him while Barsad continues to shoot out the window. It’s clumsy and he elbows John in the face twice, but the overall effect is worth it, and then Barsad, dressed in one of John’s suits, hat pulled low over his face, is riding for town like he’s being chased by Lucifer himself.

 

The men take a few shots at him, but Wayne screams for them to stop and instead sends two after him into the woods. Hopefully, they won’t notice the Colt 45 pressed to Barsad’s thigh until it’s too late.

 

Outside the house, three of the men pull down the pen, sending Bane and John’s horses running. The shooting has slowed, and Bane is busy pulling small calico bags out of the crate and lining them up, one at a time, beside a jar of liquid that smells like almonds.

 

John watches him warily because when Bane is being that careful and meticulous, you best take note. Bane gently dips one of the bags and then hurdles it out the window towards the men. It sails through the air serenely, putting John on his ass when it hits the ground and explodes. The men shout and scurry, and when the smoke clears, two more are lying dead on the ground.

 

They retaliate with a stick of dynamite that takes out the porch, and Bane growls as he shields his head from falling debris. The door is now barricaded with splintered wood and John’s mouth is bleeding from where he bit his cheek when the dynamite went off, and still, it’s not the worst Christmas Eve he’s endured.

 

“Are you worried about Barsad?” John shouts, half deaf and still reeling from the explosion

 

“There is nothing Barsad despises more than peace and quiet,” Bane says, wryly. “I worry about the men out there getting bored with tearing apart my ranch.”

 

“What happens when they do?”

 

Bane looks John dead in the eye and a shiver goes down John’s spine at the enmity he sees there. “That is when they come for us.”

 

John picks up the rifle Barsad left behind and steeles his nerves. “We won’t go gently,” he promises and shoulders the gun.

 

Bane’s mouth quirks and he dips another bag, lobbing it out a side window just as a rider makes a pass. The man catches the bag and the look on his face is almost comical before it explodes. The horse takes off, dragging the dead man behind it.

 

“I need to clear the front of the house or they will push at our disadvantage,” Bane tells him, tying a bandana over his face.

 

John nods and looks through the rifle sight. “I’ll cover you, I’ve got a small window from here.”

 

“Have you fired a rifle before?”

 

John snorts. “I grew up on a farm, didn’t I?”

 

“You were born on a farm. You grew up in Gotham.”

 

“I grew up too fast, thanks mostly to the man out there who is trying to kill us. Believe me, I won’t miss.” He clenches his jaw and Bane’s hand lands on the back of his neck, squeezing briefly.

 

“Good boy,” Bane says quietly, and then he’s pressing his shoulder to the door. “On three.”

 

“Three,” John says and starts shooting. Bane grunts and shoves at the door, pushing it against the fallen porch. The wood groans, but it must be completely separate from the house now, because what’s left of the porch shudders and then falls forwards, clearing the way for John’s shooting.

 

Bruce peeks his head around the corner and then ducks back when John nearly blows it off. John smiles and aims a little lower. Bruce gets a few shots off without showing himself and Bane comes back inside, shutting the door and crouching by the kitchen counter.

 

“The porch is gone,” Bane tells him, unnecessarily, breathing hard. “We will have to rebuild it from scratch.”

 

“We may need to rebuild everything, the way theses guys are going,” John says, glaring at the spot he knows Wayne is hiding.

 

“Nothing a coat of paint can’t improve,” Bane says, surprising a laugh out of John. He turns to look at Bane, and that’s when Wayne shoots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who is interested, the calico bags Bane is dipping are filled with potassium chlorate, and the almond-smelling substance is liquid nitrobenzene. When combined for the purposes of blasting rock for mining, it was called 'Rackarock', and was predominantly used in Australia and New Zealand. Extrapolate from that what you will about Bane and Barsad's pasts.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is love?   
> Baby don't hurt me  
> Don't hurt me  
> No more

John falls back with a grunt, white hot pain searing into his side. His eyesight is blurry and he every breath is a struggle. He starts to panic, gasping for air and clawing at his chest. Bane swears when John’s nails scratch down his throat, and he moves aside, freeing John from his crushing weight. 

 

He gulps in air, wincing when Bane’s searching hands brush against his wound. He’s never been shot before, and he really hopes he never is again because it  _ hurts _ . He wants to whimper and scream, but Bane doesn’t look worried now that he’s found it, so John bites his lips against the sounds.

 

“It grazed you,” Bane tells him. “Can you sit up?”

 

John nods, whimpering when Bane manhandles him upright.

 

“I need you to keep shooting, John. Can you do that?” Bane asks, his voice stern and hard, and, John thinks, a little worried.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. It just shocked me is all.”

 

“The first one always does,” Bane tells him, brushing John’s hair back. “You’ll be stronger for it.”

 

John nods and gets to his knees, picking up the rifle and firing off a shot, just to show them he’s not dead. Bane comes up behind him and lifts his shirt, tying a torn strip of the canvas wall around his middle. John whines when it tightens, but once the fabric is knotted, the pain subsides into a dull throb and it’s easier for him to focus. He thinks about Selina getting shot in the church and wonders if anyone was there to see to her wounds or if she had to do it herself. He misses her so much right then that he swears if they make it out of this alive, he’s sending for her. Family needs to stick together. 

 

The men advanced while John was down, and Bane only has three bags of explosives left. The boxes of ammo are getting low, the sun is going down, and their chances of surviving this get slimmer every hour that Barsad doesn’t return.

 

“Why don’t you shoot?” John asks, figuring if there’s a time for honesty and bluntness, this is it. John fires off three more shots before Bane answers.

 

“My right eye was damaged, when I got this,” Bane drags his hand down his face, over the bandana. “I cannot gauge distance well enough for bullets.”

 

John blinks. “Are you serious?  _ That’s _ the reason? Oh my god, I thought it was because you were trying to make amends for murdering an entire village or something!”

 

Bane’s brows come together, a small line forming between them. “You thought me a murderer and yet you were still willing to marry me?”

 

“Do you see what the men in my past are like?” John asks, pointing out the window. “At least you’re trying to turn over a new leaf. But why don’t you correct people when they assume you put down your guns for altruistic reasons?”

 

“I am still a dangerous man, John, and it benefits me for the men out there to understand that.”

 

“That’s why they let us pass at the creek the day I arrived. They’re afraid of you.”

 

“Less and less each day, it seems,” Bane grouses and throws another bag, taking out the wagon and three of the rustlers.

 

John scans the yard, trying to count how many men are left, but it’s full dark now and they’re well hidden. Bane kneels beside him, checking his wound.

 

“There are only three. Wayne, and two of the League’s men, Wayne’s man rode off not long after Barsad and hasn’t returned,” Bane tells him quietly, his hands big and warm on John’s stomach and back. “I was a sheriff of sorts,” he says, his voice no more than a whisper.

 

John keeps his gaze out the window, watching for advancement and not wanting to stop the flow of Bane’s words.

 

“It was a lawless place, and only the most brutal survived. I tried to keep order, but only for my benefit. I beat, and I betrayed, and I killed, ending the life of anyone who questioned my authority. We were ruthless before we were left there, and we became more savage until we were barely human, killing each other over the smallest slight, and I, John. I was a King.”

 

Bane’s fingers are slowly stroking John’s skin, as though it’s giving him the courage to confess, and John knows,  _ he knows _ what it’s like when you have to fight to survive, and he can’t blame Bane for any of it without condemning himself as well.

 

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks, keeping his eye trained out the window. “The killing?”

 

Bane presses his forehead to John’s shoulder, his breath coming long and deep. “I enjoyed what I gained from it, but I did not relish taking lives, no.”

 

“And now?”

 

“Every life I’ve taken, then, and now, weighs against my soul. I can never be absolved for the wrongs I have done, but I can live on, trying to do better. And I will not apologize for keeping you safe.”

 

“I’m not a good person, either, you know. And I didn’t decide to be better until a very short time ago. About the time you found the things I’d taken, actually. I’ve killed men when I had to, and I’ve cheated and betrayed more than I can count, but never in my life did I want to be better, until I met you,” John confesses, letting out a shaky breath and shooting at movement by the barn.

 

“You came here to get away from that,” Bane says.

 

John shakes his head. “I was only planning on staying until I figured out what to do, where to go. So I could start my own schemes, be my own boss. I’d have ended up no better than Wayne if I hadn’t met you, I know it.”

 

“Why did you stay?” Bane asks quietly.

 

John finally turns to him, and Bane is so strong, but so tired, and it’s all John can do not to wrap him in his arms. “I fell in love with you.”


	22. Chapter 22

There isn’t time to get emotional because seconds after John’s confession, the barn goes up in flames. John shoots one of the remaining men as he flees from the fire, but Bruce is still hiding behind the ruins of the wagon, letting his men do his dirty work.

 

“I must go to the barn,” Bane says, taking his hands off John’s body. “The animals are still inside.”

 

“You can’t go out there, they’ll kill you,” John protests, grabbing a handful of Bane’s shirt.

 

“Not if you cover me.”

 

“Bane, don’t.”

 

“John,” Bane says gently. “I have a duty to care for them.”

 

John bites his lip, but he releases Bane. They don’t have much time before the animals either suffocate or burn, and John knows they’ll be much harder to replace than the barn itself. 

 

“Go, but be careful!” John tells him, going back to the rifle sight. He lets out a shot as Bane goes through the door, keeping them constant, but spaced until Bane reaches the barn doors. The animals are crying out and Bane nearly gets flattened when he throws the latch and the animals burst into the night, fleeing the heat and smoke. 

 

Bane ducks into the barn and the five minutes he’s out of John’s sight are the longest and most stressful of his life because that’s not just the man he loves out there, it’s his entire future. Finally, Bane appears through the smoke, coughing and stumbling, his arms loaded with boxes of ammo. He’s halfway back to the house, and John’s still firing off shots, but one of the League’s men jumps at Bane from behind the chicken coop, knocking the boxes to the ground, but failing to take Bane down. John quickly moves to the other window, but he can’t get a clear shot and he can’t risk hitting Bane as the two men grapple.

 

John sees the flash of a blade, but before he can call out a warning, Bane’s hands are gripping the man’s head and snapping his neck. John’s breath catches at the casual violence of it, at how Bane simply lets the body drop and bends to gather the fallen boxes of ammunition. He storms through the front door just as John catches sight of Victor riding over the ridge. He’s too far away to hit, but John tries anyway until Bane stops him with a hand on his shoulder. The same hand that ended a life so easily just now.

 

“You’re wasting bullets,” Bane says softly. “We’re evenly matched now, it will be over soon.”

 

John looks up at him, at the worried look in his eyes and the tender creases of his face, smudged with soot from the fire. Bane looks like sacrifice and hardship. Like honor and redemption. 

 

John puts the rifle down and takes Bane’s hand in both of his, turning it over and pressing a kiss to his palm. His hands are warm, dirty, and that there’s a burn across the back that needs seeing to, but all John can think is that these are the hands that will fight for him. For them. These are hands he would die for.

 

Wayne’s voice breaks through their moment, shattering the intensity and emotion John is trapped in.

 

“You may think you know him, Bane,” Bruce calls, walking towards the house and letting off a shot from the rifle in his hands. “But you don’t. He’ll tell you anything you want to hear.”

 

The next shot shatters the rest of the front window and whizzes through the other side of the house.

 

“He tell you about the nun? How he got her shot over a wallet?” Wayne shoots again, the bullets decimating everything they come in contact with. “He left her bleeding and he’ll bleed you too, just like all the others!”

 

Another shot cuts through the house, narrowly missing John. “What the hell is he shooting with?”

 

“Buffalo rifle,” Bane tells him, pulling John further into the house and behind the cupboard.

 

“Where the hell did he get that?”

 

Bane eyes go hard. “The Sheriff is the only one I know who owns one.”

 

“But Barsad…” John trials off, his gut churning. Barsad went for the Sheriff for help and somehow Victor got there and back before he did. So where is Barsad now?

 

“John, do you trust me?” Bane asks with the weight of their lives behind the question.


	23. Chapter 23

Bane goes out first, slow and careful with his hands held in front of him. “You may have him,” he tells Wayne, giving he and Victor a wide berth.

 

Wayne laughs. “A coward after all, aren’t you, Bane?”

 

“He has cost me everything. All I want is to ride out, alive.” Bane’s twists his wrist and the last calico bag falls into his palm.

 

Wayne takes a step back, wary. “Drop it,” he tells Victor, who lowers his gun.

 

Bane circles them slowly until he fades into the darkness of the night. Wayne waits a minute, staring in the direction Bane disappeared, then turns back. 

 

“Burn the house.”

 

Victor’s smile is vicious as he smashes through the remaining windows, lighting anything he can reach with his torch. The house grows unbearably hot almost instantly as Bane’s possessions are eaten by the flames. John lets out a sob, choking on the smoke and doubling over.

 

“John,” Wayne trills. “Come on out, you don’t stand a chance in there.”

 

John walks out slowly, his head held high, his pistol in his hand.

 

“Put it down,” Wayne tells him. “Don’t be a hero; your boyfriend sure wasn’t.”

 

“No, he wasn’t,” John spits, keeping both the men in sight as he gets closer.

 

“Where’s my money, sweetheart?”

 

“I don’t have your goddamn money! You came all this way for nothing. Destroyed all of this! For nothing!” John knows he’s screaming, that he sounds unhinged, but he can’t stop. “For ten thousand dollars? I’ve seen you lose more in a hand of poker and not even blink.”

 

Wayne huffs a laugh, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. “So maybe it wasn’t about the money. Maybe, after all these years, I’ve come to care about you.”

 

“Or maybe you just can’t stand to lose,” John sneers.

 

“Could be. Either way I’m taking you back with me,” he says and Victor cocks his gun.

 

“I’d rather die,” John tell him and turns the gun on himself.

 

Wayne darts forward, but he’s too slow and John pulls the trigger, slumping to the ground.

 

“Boss,” Victor hisses.

 

Wayne falls to his knees beside John. “What have you done? John, why?”

 

There’s a thud, and then Wayne is being hauled backward, Bane’s wide arm around his neck. John climbs slowly to his feet, his body aching from the force of the blank shot. Wayne’s eyes go wide then he sees him.

 

“Chicken blood, remember?” John asks, wiping dirt off his face. “All those fights you fixed. The boxer you paid to take a fall.”

 

“I remember,” Wayne says, hatred and anger back home in his eyes.

 

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me shoot him?” John asks Bane, unable to tear his eyes away from the mighty Bruce Wayne, beaten and on his knees in the dirt.

 

“Whatever you see fit,” Bane tells him solemnly.

 

John raises his gun and presses it under Wayne’s chin. There’s something satisfying in the fear that springs to Wayne’s eyes, and the way his pulse spikes at the touch of cold metal. But the victory is short lived because John doesn’t want to be someone cruel enough for Wayne to fear. He wants to move on and do better, to build a life with Bane where shit like this doesn’t happen. Where he doesn’t constantly worry about his life and the lives of the people he loves. Where he doesn’t have to lie, and steal, and cheat to survive. And yes, Wayne has hurt him more than anyone else in his life, and taken everything he could from John, but he doesn’t deserve the last scrap of John’s morality. He won’t let Wayne be the one who finally breaks him.

 

He looks to Bane over Bruce’s shoulder, and Bane nods once, tightening his grip on Wayne. John pulls his gun away and Wayne lets out a breath of relief, then John brings the pistol down on his temple, knocking him out. 

 

Bane drops Wayne in the dirt beside an unconscious Victor and steps over him to pull John against his chest. John lets out another sob, but he can’t stop at one this time, and soon he’s shuddering in Bane’s strong arms, his tears soaking through Bane’s shirt, but he feels safe, and whole, and free.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters left! Up next: Bane builds a new bed.

Early the next morning, John and Bane are sorting through the debris of the house when Barsad and the Sheriff ride in with some of the neighbors. Wayne and Victor are hogtied on either side of the of a small clearing.

 

“You’re a little late,” John tells Barsad, standing with his hands on his hips.

 

Barsad smirks and slides off his horse. “I knew you’d have it handled by the time I returned. Besides, I’m just in time for Christmas.”

 

John rolls his eyes and nods at the suit Barsad is still wearing. “That looks good on you, you should keep it. Maybe it’ll you find a woman.”

 

“You know any?” Barsad drawls.

 

“I do in Boston.”

 

Barsad eyes him speculatively. “She smart?”

 

“Smarter than you by a mile,” John says and pulls Barsad into a hug.

 

“You have come for your rifle.” Bane says to the Sheriff, his voice hard.

 

“It was stolen while I was rounding up help for you,” Gordon says, and even John can tell he’s not lying. Shame and regret are in every line of his body, but he looks Bane in the eye and doesn’t back down. “You lost everything?”

 

“Not everything,” Bane says, his eyes going straight to John, who flushes and smiles.

 

“Boston police returned my wire,” Gordon continues. “Seems Wayne’s a big name in the Irish mob. Suspected of murder, larceny, extortion. They’ve been after him for years, but never been able to make anything stick. The Victor fellow has quite a list of deeds as well.” Gordon pauses to look back at Wayne and Victor. “Fortunately, we work a little different around here. They were trespassing, wasn’t they?” 

 

“Trespassing?” John exclaims. “That’s all you’re going to hold them for?”

 

Bane’s hand is warm on his back, but it doesn’t ease his fury.

 

“They were,” Bane affirms.

 

“Last month in The Narrows, we hanged a man for trespassing,” Gordon explains. “And all he did was steal a few chickens.”

 

John gapes and Bane’s hand curves around his waist, pulling him closer. He slumps into Bane’s side, trying to convince himself the nightmare is over.

 

“The League’s men are all dead,” Bane says, unapologetically.

 

“You were well within your rights as soon as they crossed onto your land. It’s the same law they used to defend rustlin’, so no one can argue. And I told the League the open range stays open, if I have to bring in the Federal Marshalls.”

 

Bane nods and Gordon walks away to survey the damage. The neighbors are already digging into the scorched wood and sorting the planks that are salvageable and those that aren’t. Some of the women have erected a makeshift table and are unpacking sandwiches and canteens. One of the men walks up to stand beside John, and he recognizes him as the one he took a pocket watch off of at the party, Geordie, he thinks his name is.

 

“It was good of you to come,” John says.

 

Geordie nods. “We’ll start on the barn tomorrow.”

 

John stands there, feeling awkward and undeserving of their help. Guilty for bringing a man like Wayne into their lives. He startles when Geordie claps him on the shoulder.

 

“Don’t look so grim, John, you’ll have shelter over your heads by the new year.”

 

“It’s not that, it’s just… Why are you here? I betrayed your trust within an hour of meeting you. All of you. And yet here you are, before the smoke has cleared. I don’t get it.” John knows his face is red, but Geordie is still smiling, so he doesn’t feel like a complete asshole for asking.

 

“Because we’re neighbors, John. Around these parts, and especially in Santa Prisca, neighbors are like family,” Geordie tells him, his hand still resting on John’s shoulder when he leans in. “You can’t get rid of family with a little petty theft.”

 

He walks off, laughing, and when John turns to Bane, there’s a crinkle at the corner of his eye, telling John that under his covering, he’s laughing, too.

 

By the end of the day, the barn has been cleared and the Sheriff has taken Wayne and Victor back to the jail and sent out two men from the lumber mill with wood so tomorrow’s work can start early. Barsad tells him they’ll cut their own wood for the house, but with the animals roaming loose, they need the barn up as soon as possible. He grumbles good naturedly about having to share his accommodations with Bane and John, but there’s a softness in his now frequent touches that John takes to mean he’s glad they’re both still alive.

 

Despite the good nature of their neighbors and the easy forgiveness of Bane and Barsad, there’s a heavy guilt gnawing at John. He looks around at the neighbors packing up to head home, knowing they’ll be back again by sunrise, and he hates that this is all his fault. All the violence and destruction, is all because of him.

 

He walks away from the ruins, heading to the temporary paddock that’s been set up for the horses. He leans on the fence, wondering how much love is enough to forgive something like this. If he’s really enough to make losing everything worthwhile for Bane, despite his earlier assurances. 

 

“John,” Bane calls from behind him. When John doesn’t turn around, Bane leans on the fence beside him, their shoulders pressed together. “What is it?”

 

John knows it’s now or never, so he squares his shoulders and keeps his eyes resolutely on the horses. “I’m never going to be the man who wrote you those letters.”

 

In his peripheral vision he sees Bane turn, confusion write across his face. “I do not require you to be.”

 

“Are you sure? Because this is kind of how it goes with me; I’ve always been more trouble than I’m worth,” he says, wincing at the emotion in his voice. He wants Bane to keep him, so badly, but he knows it’s not that simple.

 

Bane grabs a hold of John’s shoulder and spins him around so his back is pressed to the paddock. He rips off the bandana and crowds into John’s space, the wide expanse of him blocking everything else out.

 

“You did not cause this destruction,” he tells John, his voice deep and sure. “Bruce Wayne did when he came to collect what did not belong to him. What never belonged to him. You stood up to your oppressor and stayed by my side when you could have run. That is the mark of courage, John. That is the spark and the spirit of the man I love. It had nothing to do with the person who wrote those letters to me. He is gone and buried in our hearts, but you, John. You and I are still here, and we have fought to be together. Do not throw that away in favor of fear and guilt, I beg you.”

 

John gasps, wet and shaky, but so happy he could scream. “There’s the poetry I found in the letters,” he laughs, resting his palms on Bane’s chest. “Those are the most beautiful words anyone has ever said to me.”

 

“Then let me conclude with action,” Bane says, pulling the small wooden box from the cupboard out of his pocket. When he rescued it, John has no idea, but it’s unharmed, so it must have been before the shootout. He opens the box and takes John’s hand.

 

“I had that ring in my hand before, you know. I almost stole it,” John confesses.

 

A smile tugs at Bane’s lips. “Now you do not have to.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Here is the sexing you've all been waiting for! I had to change the rating of the fic because this turned out more explicit than I thought it was going to. Those darn men and their sexy, sexy ways!

By March, the new house is built, bigger and stronger than before, and John paints it a cheerful orange, Jonathan’s favorite color. He’s been banned from the barn for the past month while Bane builds them a new bed, and the day it’s done, Bane sends him into town so he can move it in without ruining the surprise. In retaliation, John buys a block of the chocolate he knows Bane secretly loves. His sweet tooth is notorious, but unspoken, and chocolate is one of the few treats he can eat without taxing his jaw.

 

John collects their parcels and chats with some of the locals before riding home, hopefully to break in his new bed. They’ve been so busy with ranching and rebuilding, that he and Bane have hardly had more than a handful of moments alone, and Bane tells him it’s rude to fool around when they’re sharing sleeping space with Barsad. Barsad just winks and tells him he doesn’t mind, and asks if they mind if he scores them on it.

 

As a result, they’ve done barely more than kiss since Christmas, and John is wound too tight to function properly. Bane pretends to be fine, but John’s seen the need in his heated gaze and tightness in his britches when John bathes in the creek. Unfortunately, lingering in the cold is ill-advised and they end up hobbling back to the farm, half frozen and more frustrated than the day before. Needless to say, John is more than ready for his present.

 

Bane is on the porch, whittling, when John clears the ridge. The sun is high overhead, and John smiles to himself, because he can practically see the nervousness thrumming under Bane’s skin. He takes the reins from John when he dismounts, and leads the horse to the new paddock, speaking to the beast in a low murmur and offering a carrot.

 

John slips his hand into Bane’s, linking their fingers and squeezing as they make their way to the house.

 

“How was your ride?” Bane asks.

 

“Now as good as my second one is going to be,” John tells him, grinning when Bane’s ears turn pink. 

 

Their new bedroom is near the back of the house and has actual walls. Not that John had anything against the canvas, but Bane insisted on more privacy now that they’re to be married. 

 

“Where are the parcels?” Bane asks, like they’re not both aching to get the other undressed.

 

“They can wait,” John tells him.

 

Bane chuckles. “So eager.”

 

“Yes, of course I am, I’ve barely been able to touch you for three months and I’m nearly blind with want. Did you build us a bed for us  _ not _ to use it?”

 

“Patience is a virtue, John.”

 

“I’m pretty sure we agreed I’m lacking in virtue, so let’s go.” John tries to pull him towards the bedroom, but Bane is unmovable when he wants to be.

 

“The parcels,” he repeats and John sighs, letting go of his hand to pick up the satchel he dropped on the table when they came in.

 

Bane roots through it, pulling out a narrow wooden box and handing it to John. “A gift.”

 

“I thought the bed was my gift.”

 

“Can I not give you more than one gift?” Bane asks, slipping a glass bottle into his pocket.

 

“Is that for me, too?” John asks, nodding to where Bane’s hand has disappeared.

 

“No,” Bane purrs. “That one is for me.”

 

John shivers and slides open the top of the box, eager to move things along. Inside the box is a pair of gold rimmed glasses and John stills. “When did you…” he trails off, taking the glasses out carefully.

 

“Right after the party.”

 

John stares at him, mouth hanging open. “But you hated me then.”

 

“John,” Bane says, fondly. “I have never hated you.”

 

“But you didn’t trust me.”

 

“That does not mean I did not want you to stay,” Bane tells him softly, cupping John’s face in his large hands.

 

John goes onto his toes to press a thankful kiss to Bane’s mouth, running his tongue over the scar there and relishing the way it makes Bane groan.

 

“Thank you, but I’m going to leave them out here because I don’t plan on letting you get far enough from me to go blurry.”

 

Bane’s mouth curls into a smile and then he’s pulling John to the bedroom door and throwing it open to reveal the biggest bed John has ever seen. It’s easily ten feet by ten feet and covered with a blanket woven with deep red fabric. The pillows look freshly stuffed and ready to be put to use.

 

“It’s bigger than the last one,” John notes, his body warming as Bane steps behind him.

 

“Sturdier, too.”

 

“Oh, was the last one inadequately built?” John teases and Bane’s arms wrap around his waist.

 

“No,” he growls into John’s ear, lighting up his nerves. “But it was not built with you in mind, and I suspect you require something built to match your unyielding nature.”

 

John laughs and hooks his arm around the back of Bane’s neck, pulling him closer. “I think you’ll be surprised how accommodating I can be with the right motivation.”

 

Bane quirks and eyebrow. “Is that so?”

 

“Let’s find out,” John says, pulling his shirt off over his head. His pants are next, and then he throws himself onto the bed where he lays, stretched out and propped up on his elbows to watch Bane. “Come on, cowboy, don’t be shy.”

 

Bane huffs in amusement, but there’s a flush working its way up his throat. Even living in close quarters, and bathing in the river, Bane remains hesitant to show his body to John, especially when John asks to see it. John understands that they both bear scars they can’t erase, but he also knows Bane believes they wouldn’t be the men they’ve become without them, so he’s a little lost regarding Bane’s modesty.

 

“Here,” John says, beckoning Bane closer. “Let me.” He crawls on his knees to the edge of the bed, curling his fingers in the hem of Bane’s shirt. 

 

Bane’s chest rumbles when John slips under the linen to caress his stomach, and John’s half hard already at the smooth firmness he finds. Bane is the biggest man he’s ever seen, and he’s built beautifully, his bulk functional and hard earned with physical labour. He’s so immensely strong it’s almost inhuman, and his quick footedness is rivaled only by Barsad’s unnatural grace. There’s a softness to Bane’s body, though, and John’s fingers press into his flesh relishing the give. It marks Bane as simply a man, and for John, it puts them on an equal footing.

 

Bane watches as John explores, his eyes hooded, but keen, and John makes sure to map out every inch of Bane’s chest while his shirt is still on, his eyes open to express how much he enjoys touching Bane. It works, because when he pushes the shirt up, Bane raises his arms and lets John pull it off him.

 

John puts his mouth to Bane’s skin, retracing the path of his fingers as he learns the taste of the man he loves. Bane’s hand cups the back of his head, holding him close and letting John lick and scrape his teeth over a nipple while Bane rubs gently behind John’s ear. 

 

John’s hands ghost around Bane’s waist and he sucks firmly on the prominent bud in his mouth to reassure Bane as he strokes his fingers over the scar that runs along Bane’s spine. Bane’s breath catches and his grip tightens, but he doesn’t stop John from touching. 

 

“It tingles,” Bane rasps, arching away when John presses harder.

 

“Like you lips?” John asks. 

 

Bane shakes his head. “There is pain there, still.”

 

“Okay,” John says, showing Bane his hands. “I won’t touch it. Thank you for letting me try.”

 

“I would like to lay you down now,” Bane tells him and a thrill goes through John. 

 

“Can I do this first?” John touches the button of Bane’s trousers. He’s not hard yet, but there are definitely stirrings beneath the fabric and John can’t wait to experience this part of Bane.

 

Bane nods and stands stock-still while John opens his pants and shoves them down. Bane is still thick when soft, but there’s an attractive vulnerability to the gentle sloping of his cock when it’s simply resting between his legs.

 

“I know you want me on my back,” John says, licking his lips, unable to tear his gaze away from his new best friend now that it’s been revealed. “But can I suck you first?” He glances at Bane’s face, and the surprise he sees there encourages him. “I want to know if you taste the same all over.”

 

Bane’s eyes flutter closed and his hand tightens on the back of John’s head, urging him closer. 

 

John doesn’t take him in right away, instead he closes his eyes and presses his nose in the crease of Bane’s thigh, wiry hair ticking his face as he breathes Bane in, basking in the masculine bouquet that’s thicker here, so heavy and dense John can practically taste it on his tongue. His hands are braced on Bane’s thighs and the hard muscle underneath his palms twitches as he mouths down Bane’s length, the skin unbelievably soft and smooth. His foreskin is long, drooping over the head, and John suckles it slowly, trying to pace himself and listen for Bane’s cues. 

 

The tip is a touch colder than the rest and John can’t help but slip his tongue into the opening, warming it and groaning when Bane’s hitches forward, pressing the head into John’s waiting mouth. Bane is starting to harden, and John wants to feel it happen, so he takes in more. Like this, Bane fills his mouth, the girth and length pressing at John’s throat and cheeks, and as he hardens further, John thinks he could happily suffocate like this. He doesn’t do anything at first, just enjoys the sensation of Bane twitching and swelling inside him, but soon Bane is leaking and he can’t help but pull off to taste it with a swipe of his thumb.

 

Bane groans when John sucks his thumb into his mouth, and John smiles wickedly up at him. “Delicious.”

 

“Have you had your fill?” Bane asks, his voice raw, his breathing a little faster than usual.

 

“Never,” John declares and takes him in again until Bane’s cock is threatening his access to air. He spreads saliva as he goes, loving the way Bane’s hands on him tighten when he gets sloppy. He bobs and sucks, working with his hand what he can’t fit in his mouth, and he’s starting to lose himself to it, his brain switching into its pleasure mode, where all he can comprehend is more and now. His own cock is throbbing, but John ignores it, intent on giving everything he can to Bane.

 

Firm hands pull him away, crushing him to Bane’s chest and he pants and whines. 

 

“That is enough,” Bane tells him, stroking his back. “You will lie back for me now.”

 

“Yes,” John gasps, allowing Bane to manipulate him into position. Once he’s relaxed against the pillows, Bane hovering over him, John smiles. “You taste even better there.”

 

Bane chuckles, his blunt fingers dragging down John’s chest. The small bottle he took from John satchel is in his other hand, and he looks nervous again.

 

“What is it?” John asks, reaching for him.

 

“You need to be prepared,” Bane tells him. “I have never...the men I have been with were already...I do not know,” Bane stops and shakes his head, visibly frustrated. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

 

“You’ve only been with men in the profession?” John guesses, careful to keep his voice even.

 

“Or who bartered with their flesh,” Bane confirms, eyes firm on John’s hand on him.

 

“That’s fine, I can do it—”

 

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Bane repeats seriously. “Ever.”

 

It dawns on John that Bane hardly ever asks for anything from those around him, but he’s asking now, isn’t he?

 

“I can show you,” John says, smiling. “We can do it together.”

 

Bane nods. “I will enjoy it.”

 

John laughs gently. “I hope so. I know I will.”

 

“I have been told I am...satisfying as a lover,” Bane says, flushing again.

 

“With that between your legs you ought to be,” John teases. “But I have a feeling this is going to be very different that what either of us has experienced before.”

 

“How so?”

 

It’s John’s turn to blush, and he pulls Bane down to him so he can hide his face under his arm. “I’ve never made love before. I’ve never been in love.”

 

“I will endeavor to make it memorable,” Bane promises, and John grins into his skin.

 

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” John takes the bottle from him and pushes Bane back. “You should lay down. It’s easier for me to reach when I’m on my knees.”

 

Bane growls, like the idea of John on display for him, fingering himself open, pleases him. Once they’ve switched places, John straddles Bane’s thighs, his own legs spread wide to accommodate them. He slicks up his hand and reaches behind him, dragging his fingers over his hole.

 

“Slick is best,” John tells him, already growing breathless with anticipation. “So thank you for thinking ahead. Oil works, spit too, but not as well, and not for someone your size. I like to circle myself a few times, teasing a bit before pushing in.”

 

Bane’s wet finger nudges his, copying his movements, and John groans. His finger slides in, followed closely by Bane’s, and it’s a stretch, but not so bad that John’s willing to stop. Bane’s finger rubs against him, exploring, while John works himself open, shuddering out a whine when Bane finds his prostate.

 

“I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” John gasps, his free hand wrapping around Bane’s wrist to stop him. 

 

“Another time,” Bane promises, darkly.

 

John nods. “Yes, definitely.”

 

Bane’s second finger beats him to the punch and slips inside, forcing John to squeeze his eyes shut and bear down. 

 

“Too soon?” Bane asks, rubbing John’s thigh.

 

“No, no, your fingers are just thicker than mine. It’s a lot to get used to,” John says, scraping the nails of his free hand over Bane’s stomach. “I’m going to take mine out, you’re a quick learner.”

 

Bane hums his approval, pumping his fingers in and out as soon as John’s is gone. John falls forward at the force of it, bracing himself on Bane’s chest.

 

“You will tell me if I hurt you,” Bane commands and John smiles, punch drunk on the singing of his nerves.

 

“If you promise not to stop unless I tell you to.”

 

Bane’s grin is sharp, with a wickedness to it John’s never seen, and then a third finger is added, making John keen and scramble for purchase. Bane’s methods are intense and unforgiving, but John never wants him to stop. Before long, he’s pushing into it, riding Bane’s fingers until pleasure is curling through him, making him gasp, and whine, and beg for more. The whole time, Bane watches him, those piercing blue-grey eyes cataloguing John’s every movement and response, assessing what makes him grunt and shove. What makes him scream. 

 

Having Bane’s eyes on him makes everything more vivid, intensifying not only John’s reactions, but his desire as well. He’s performed before; made a show of how a man’s touch feels, but where that was a pantomime, designed to influence and sway, this is a revelation. John wants, with every fibre of his soul, to telegraph exactly how Bane is making him feel. When Bane’s fingers crook and John’s toes curl, he wants Bane to know it, wants him to feel just as good. 

 

“Enough,” he pants. “I’m ready.”

 

“Are you sure?” Bane asks, his own breaths coming heavy and short.

 

Instead of answering, John rises up, moaning as Bane’s fingers slip free. He moves back, using the bottle to slick up Bane’s cock and then holding him in place. Bane doesn’t stop him, but nor does he help, he just lays there, watching John’s frantic movements with a smug smile as John lines himself up and lowers his body onto Bane’s cock. John grunts when the head slips in, spearing him open and marking the way for the rest of the formidable length.

 

Bane’s fingers dig into John’s hips as though he’s unable to keep from reacting to the heat and clench of John’s ass. He guides John down, not allowing him to pause until Bane is fully engulfed, John sitting heavy on top of him, his breath high and reedy as he adjusts.

 

Bane’s jaw works soundlessly as John tightens around him. “I am undeserving of you,” he whispers, staring up in awe.

 

John leans forward, eyelids fluttering when it causes Bane to slip out a bit. No one has ever looked at John like this, with such adoration in their eyes, like Bane wants John simply because he’s John, and not because he wants to own him, or take away some piece of him. It’s strange, and overwhelming, and John never wants to take it for granted.

 

He presses a kiss to Bane’s bottom lip and sits back up. “Earn me, then.”

 

Bane’s eyes go dark and he pulls John down by the hips, thrusting up at the same time and driving himself further inside. He sets a relentless pace, and John leans back, bracing himself on Bane’s thighs and he rides him, giving as good as he gets. Grinding down as Bane snaps his hips, meeting him again and again until every nerve in his body is alight and he feels like he’s going explode.

 

“John,” Bane wheezes, burying himself deep, and John can feel him coming. He shunts back, rocking on Bane’s cock in little thrusts as Bane empties himself with a soundless scream. He keeps going, even as Bane’s fingers go lax on his hips and the flush on his chest fades. John is so close, and he can’t stop now. Won’t stop.

 

He whines, fucking himself until he’s bouncing, and Bane is still hard, laying back to watch him, and it’s that, the look of hunger and desire that’s still on Bane’s face, even after he’s come, that look that’s full of love and pleasure at seeing John take what he wants, that sends him over the edge.

 

Bane’s hand curls around him at the first spurt, stroking gentle, but firm, and dragging out every last drop as John shakes and grinds on top of him.

 

When he’s finishes, John collapses on Bane’s chest, mindless of the mess between them. His breathe is taxed, and there’s an ache in his thighs and lower back, but he’s never been happier in his life. 

 

“I love you,” he mumbles, absently stroking the hair under Bane’s arm.

 

Bane wiggles away from the touch, repositioning him so that John’s head is tucked under his chin and he can stroke down John’s spine.

 

“I am still undeserving of you,” Bane tells him softly.

 

John sighs. “Then I guess we’re just going to have to keep trying until you’re worthy.”

 

Bane’s laugh rumbles under his cheek and his fingers dig into John’s ribs, making him laugh and squirm. “I am forever at your mercy, John.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the last chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who read along and left kudos and amazing comments, I really appreciate all the love and support! Thank you also for your patience when I disappeared over the holidays. Turns out I needed to just sleep for three days. Who knew Christmas could be stressful?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy how this ends!

The wedding is small, just a tent and some tables erected in the front field, close enough to the house that their guests can help bring out the food. The spring flowers are in bloom, and Barsad can’t stop sneezing, but the sun shines on them as the Sheriff pronounces them married. Bane kisses him and their neighbours whoop loudly as John grins so wide his face hurts.

 

There’s food, music, and dancing, and Geordie reminds everyone to check their pockets if they chance a dance with John, and John think his heart has never been fuller until a horse and cart comes over the ridge. 

 

Everyone stops to stare, Bane tensing beside him, but John would know Selina anywhere, and he starts running before anyone can stop him. She’s ditched her habit, but her dress is still long and modest, kicking up dirt as she jumps from the cart and runs to meet John halfway.

 

“You’re here, you made it!” he crows, catching her in his arms and spinning around.

 

“God Himself couldn’t keep me from you,” Selina whispers into his hair, clinging to him. “I missed you so much.”

 

“I missed you, too,” John says, tears in his eyes. “I can’t quite believe you’re real.”

 

“As real as this,” Selina says, grabbing at his hand and inspecting his ring.

 

“John?” Bane inquires behind him.

 

“Jesus, he’s a big one,” Selina states, looking Bane over with a shrewd eye.

 

“You are Selina,” Bane says, sliding his arm over John’s shoulders.

 

“And you made an honest man out of my brother. Am I supposed to thank you for that?” she asks, hands on her hips.

 

“Selina, stop,” John laughs. “I’m happy, I swear it.”

 

Selina frowns at him, but only for a moment, then she’s taking his arm and dragging him away. “I have a wedding present for you.”

 

“Go back to our guests, I’ll be there in a minute,” John tells Bane, going up on his toes to kiss him. 

 

Bane nods and turns away, and it’s not lost on John that this is Bane trusting him not to get into the cart with Selina and flee.

 

Selia pulls the side off a large crate in the back of the cart and steps back.

 

“It’s big,” John smiles. “You didn’t have to get us anything.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll find a place for it,” Selina purrs, her smile coy, but shameless.

 

John reaches into the packing and pulls out a two and a half foot statue of the Virgin Mother, his eyes wide. “Ohh, I don’t know how to thank you.”

 

“The usual way will be fine,” Selina says, bowing her head as John turns over the statue and starts pulling stacks of folded bills out of a hole at the base. He hands Selina half and stuffs the rest into his jacket pocket. “You gonna tell Bane?”

 

“Nope,” John tells her, grinning. “I’m going to give it to him. We have a lot of cattle to buy.”

 

Selina laughs. “My, you have changed.”

 

“It’s about time,” John says, looking across the yard at Bane dancing with Geordie’s little girl standing on his shoes. “I finally found something worth it.”

 

“Him?” Selina smooths down a stray lock of his hair.

 

John shakes his head. “No, me. He just showed me it was possible.”

 

“Well, I owe him my thanks, then,” Selina says, taking his arm once more. “Let’s go get acquainted. And didn’t you say something about a brother?”

 

John laughs and leads her back to the tent.

 

Later, when the sun is setting and most of the guests have gone home, and Barsad and the Sheriff are happily losing their pocket money to Selina in a game of poker, Bane leads John further into the field. They stand on the hill, watching their wedding day end over the land they now share, and there’s a sense of peace around them that wasn’t there before.

 

“You make me happy, John,” Bane tells him, holding him close. “I did not think I would ever have that.”

 

John sighs and leans his head on Bane’s shoulder. “Me too. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d get out of Gotham, end up in Santa Prisca, marry a rancher, and be happy about it. You changed my whole world, husband.”

 

Bane smiles down at him. “I still cannot believe I get to keep you.”

 

“Oh, believe me, you’re not getting rid of me,” John laughs.

 

“I love you, John,” Bane whispers, nosing at John’s hairline.

 

“I love you, too. And I was actually thinking of going by my middle name from now on, something to go with my new life. It’s what my mother always called me; Robin.”

 

Bane grunts his approval. “Robin.”

 

“Do you like it?” he asks, unsure of why it’s so important that Bane does.

 

“Robins are territorial and loyal to their mates. They will fight viciously to the death if another threatens their nest.”

 

John chuckles. “Yeah, that sounds like me.”

 

“Indeed,” Bane smiles and drops a kiss to John’s lips. “But Robins also herald new life and new beginnings. They bring hope. So yes, my little bird, I like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robins are truly vicious and territorial. They will cut a bitch who strays near their nest. They don't however, mate for life. Mostly it's whomever is convenient when the time comes, but they do stay with that mate for the season. But John isn't really a bird, so we can gloss over that and say he and Bane lived happily ever after and adopted orphans and put up with a few years of 'will they/won't they' with Selina and Barsad until John finally has enough and locks them in a room together to hash it out. The end.


End file.
